He sat on a broken tombstone and laid the book on an old tree stump a few feet away. He had been of two minds as to whether he should leave the book at home or take it with him. Didric and his goons might have broken in when he was away, or mugged him if they caught him on the way to the graveyard. In the end he had brought it, if only because he was loathe to let it out of his sight.
The scroll was leathery in his palm, and Fletcher realised with a flash of horror that the symbols must have been carved into the victim’s flesh to scar over, before skinning him alive. He shuddered at the gruesome thought and tried to hold it with as few fingers as possible. The surface was surprisingly dry and dusty.
The words on the scroll were nothing more than a list of syllables, more of a musical do re mi than any kind of orc language. Then again, he wasn’t even sure what language summoning used; perhaps the orcs had translated what he was about to read into their own writings from another language entirely. On top of that, James Baker had written that this demon had already been captured by a shaman and somehow ‘gifted’. Who knew what that entailed? Still, he would read the words and then get back to his warm bed, happy in the knowledge that he had tried.
‘Di rah go mai lo fa lo go rah lo . . .’
He began to speak, feeling slightly ridiculous and glad nobody was watching him, except for, perhaps, the ghosts of people long dead.
The words flowed from his tongue as if he knew them by heart, and he could not stop even if he wanted to, so great was the draw to speak them loud and clear. A heady, drunken feeling suffused his body like a warm cloak, yet instead of the haze that beer brought on, he felt a perfect clarity, like staring into the placid waters of a mountain lake. In Fletcher’s mind, the words were more of a mystic equation, each one repeating, in varying cycles, that were almost melodious in their utterance.
‘Fai lo so nei di roh . . .’
The words droned on and on relentlessly, until at last he came to the endmost line. As the final words were uttered, he felt his mind shift in a way he recognised, that split-second feeling of razor sharpness that he experienced in the moment of his arrow’s release, yet twice what he had ever felt then. It was both familiar and alien to experience the world in such a way. Colours became vivid and almost iridescent. The small winter flowers that grew among the graves seemed to glow with ethereal light, so bright were they in his vision.
As his heart thundered in his chest he felt a tugging at his mind, at first tentative, then insistent and so powerful he fell from his perch to his knees.
When he lifted his head he saw the cover of the book glimmer. His eyes widened as the lines of the pentacle glowed, the star within a circle shimmering with purple radiance. Then, as if it had been there all along, a blue orb of light appeared a few inches above it. It was at first the pinprick of a firefly, then the size of a small boulder in the space of a few seconds. It hovered there, so bright that Fletcher averted his eyes, then covered them with his hands as the radiance intensified to a burning ball as bright as the sun. A roaring like the stoked flames of Berdon’s forge clamoured in his ears, sending waves of pain into his skull.
After what seemed like hours, it stopped. In the sudden darkness and silence, Fletcher thought he was dead. He kneeled with his forehead in the soft earth, breathing in great sobbing breaths of its grassy scent to convince himself he was still there, though the air was now tinged with a sulphurous odour he did not recognise. It was only the sound of a soft chirp that caused him to lift his head.
A demon crouched on a small hillock in the grass two feet from the book, sitting back on its hind legs. Its tail lashed behind it like that of a feral cat, and its claws gripped the remains of something black and shiny, an insect-like imp of some kind from the other world. It gnawed at it like a squirrel on a nut, crunching into the beetle demon’s carapace.
The creature was about the size of a ferret, with a similarly lithe body and limbs long enough that it would be able to lope with the grace of a mountain wolf rather than scuttle like a lizard. Its smooth skin was a deep burgundy, like a fine wine. The eyes were large and round like those of an owl, fiercely intelligent and the colour of raw amber. To Fletcher’s surprise, it had no teeth to speak of, but the snout ended sharply, almost like a river turtle’s beak. It used it to snap up the last of the beetle, before turning the focus of its gaze on to him.
Fletcher blanched and scrambled backwards, pressing his back into the broken gravestone. In turn, the creature screeched and scampered behind the stump, bounding sinuously as its tail switched back and forth. Fletcher noticed a sharp spike on the end of it, like a slim arrow-head carved from deer bone. The graveyard was silent, not even a breeze breaking the hush that had settled over Fletcher’s world like a blanket.
The yellow sphere of its eye peeked suspiciously over the lip of the stump. When their eyes met, he sensed something strange on the edge of his consciousness, a distinct otherness that seemed connected to him somehow. He felt an intense curiosity that was overpowering in its insistence, even as he was suffused with his own desire to flee. He sucked in another deep, sobbing breath and prepared to run.
Suddenly, the demon darted over the stump in a languid leap and on to Fletcher’s heaving chest. It peered up at him, cocking its head to one side as if examining his face. He held his breath as it chittered incomprehensibly then patted him with a foreleg.
Fletcher sat there, frozen.
Again the creature trilled at him. Then, to Fletcher’s horror, it continued its climb, each claw digging through the fabric of his shirt. It wrapped itself around his neck like a snake, the leathery skin of its belly smooth and warm. The tail whipped past his face, then continued to encircle his nape. Fletcher could feel hot breath by his ear and knew that it would throttle him in that instant, a painful death that Didric had already tried to impart on him. At least they wouldn’t have to cart his body very far for burial, he thought morbidly. As the grip began to tighten, Fletcher closed his eyes, praying it would be quick.
10
The minutes ticked by at a snail’s pace. The third morning bell must have rung by now and dawn was just a few hours away. Fletcher was beginning to get cold, but resisted his compulsion to shiver for fear of startling the imp. Twin plumes of steam flared to his left with every exhalation from the demon’s nostrils. Its chest rose and fell in a continuous rhythm, and he could hear a gentle susurration as its hot breath tickled his ear. It was almost as if . . . the demon was sleeping! How that had happened he did not know, but he was glad he was still breathing.
When he tried to pull it from his neck it growled in its slumber and tightened itself, the claws clamping down near his jugular. He removed his fingers, and it relaxed again, chirring contentedly. It reminded him of one of the village cats that would sneak into his room during a snowstorm, refusing to leave the warmth of his lap and hissing when he tried to get up. The imp was a possessive little thing.
He got up and walked to the book, keeping his neck still, as if he were balancing a jar of water on top of his head. Crouching with difficulty, he picked it up, slid the scroll between its pages, and clutched it to his chest. If he was going to take command of this demon, he would probably need it.
It was then that he heard it: the sound of loud angry voices. He turned and saw a flickering light at the end of the graveyard. How had they found him? Perhaps a local had heard the noise, or seen the light from the orb earlier. This was unlikely: he had chosen the graveyard because it was located on a small outcrop to the north of the main village, accessible only by a treacherous goat path and almost a half-mile from the nearest dwelling.
He looked about in panic, before spotting a crumbling mausoleum in the corner of the graveyard. It was the size of a small cabin, surrounded by ornate columns and embellished with carvings of flowers, though the rain had worn away the detailing long ago. He crept up to it and ducked into the low entrance, sinking
into the darkness and hunkering behind the block of stone that covered the crypt at the very end of the chamber. Fletcher knew that an ancient ossuary lay just a few feet below him, the bones of villagers from generations ago stacked like so many pieces of kindling.
He was not a moment too soon, for the glow from the burning torch tinged the ground outside his hiding place a few seconds later.
‘I am beginning to think you have led us on a fool’s errand, wandering around this graveyard,’ came Didric’s voice, thick with frustration.
‘I’m telling you, I saw him walking up through the back gates of the village.’ Fletcher recognised the voice as that of Calista, a newer guard and one of Didric’s drinking companions. She was a hard-faced girl with a sadistic streak almost as bad as Didric’s.
‘Surely you understand how absurd this is,’ Didric scoffed. ‘That he would be wandering around the graveyard, of all places, in the dead of night. He’s got no family to speak of, who would he be visiting?’
‘He’s got to be here. We’ve checked the orchards and the storehouses, and he’s not in any of them. This is the only other place north of the village,’ Calista insisted.
‘Well, search the place. Maybe he’s creeping about behind some tombstones. Come on, you too, Jakov. I’m not paying you to just stand there,’ Didric commanded.
Jakov grunted, and Fletcher ducked down as he saw the man lumber past the mausoleum, Didric’s torch casting a long shadow ahead of him.
This was bad. Didric and Calista he might have been able to fight off, but with Jakov . . . his only option was to make a break for it. Even then, Calista had been hired as a guard for her athletic build, and Fletcher was not sure if he could outrun her, especially with an unpredictable demon wrapped around his neck. The good thing was that Didric seemed to be the only one with a torch. Fletcher might be able to lose them in the dark.
He sunk down to the cold marble floor and waited, hoping they would leave before checking the mausoleum. It seemed such an obvious place to look, but then it probably appeared empty at first glance, with him hiding behind the stone cover. The torch light from outside dimmed as Didric wandered down the rows of graves and a heavy drizzle of rain began to patter on the roof. Fletcher allowed himself to relax; they wouldn’t search for long in this downpour.
The cracked ceiling began to leak, and a thin trickle of water splattered beside him. He edged away from the growing puddle and tried to stay calm, though it was not easy knowing who was searching for him outside. He hoped this was not how the animals he hunted felt when he tracked them through the forest.
Just when he thought he had escaped them, he noticed the dark around him retreat as the light from the torch drew closer. Didric was returning! Fletcher heard swearing as the boy ducked into the mausoleum and held his breath as Didric wrung out his cloak. The torch spluttered from the rain, then finally died and cast the room in darkness. Didric swore viciously. A few moments later Jakov and Calista followed, both of them just as foul mouthed and wet.
‘Did I say you could stop searching yet?’ Didric growled in the darkness, but he sounded resigned.
‘He’s not here. He must have doubled back when I went to get you.’ Calista’s voice was tinged with misery.
‘Don’t think you’re going to be paid for this,’ Didric spat. ‘No Fletcher, no money.’
‘But we’re soaked!’ Jakov whined, his teeth chattering.
‘Oh grow up. We’re all wet. That little sneak may have given us the slip, but all that means is it will be worse for him when we do catch up with him. Come on, let’s get out of here.’
Fletcher breathed a silent sigh of relief as their departing footsteps echoed through the chamber. Then, just when Fletcher thought the ordeal was over, the demon stirred. It yawned with a loud mewl and unravelled itself from his neck. With an affectionate lick of Fletcher’s face, it tumbled into his lap and stretched languorously.
‘What was that?’ Didric hissed.
Damn.
11
Fletcher stood up and squared his shoulders, tipping the imp on to the floor. It yelped in protest and darted into the back corner of the mausoleum.
‘Is that you, Fletcher?’ asked Didric, squinting into the darkness. The entrance was the only part of the chamber that was visible in the dim moonlight, so Fletcher was likely just a dark shape in the shadows. Didric began to walk towards him.
‘What do you want, Didric? Isn’t it past your bedtime?’ Fletcher asked, his voice filled with confidence he did not feel. It was better he announce himself now than allow Didric to come closer to investigate. He wanted to keep the tombstone in between them.
‘The little sneak is in here!’ Didric called out, but there was no need; Jakov and Calista were already standing behind him. Their black silhouettes were stark against the moonlit graveyard, giving Fletcher the small advantage of knowing where they stood. But the fact that they were barring the way out definitely did not help his chances.
‘Caught like a rat in a trap,’ Didric said with sadistic relish. ‘Not so clever now, are you, Fletchy?’
‘I see you’ve brought your two nannies with you,’ Fletcher said, wracking his brains to think of some way out of there. ‘Three against one is it? Why don’t you fight me like a man? Oh wait . . . we’ve already tried that.’
‘Shut up!’ Didric snapped. ‘You sucker punched me. If it had been a fair fight, I would have beaten you into a pulp.’ His voice was taut with hurt pride and anger. Fletcher knew his only way out of this was to take Didric on, one on one.
‘So fight me now. Let Jakov and Calista see what would have happened if I hadn’t,’ Fletcher said with as much conviction as he could muster. He clenched his fists, and took a step forward. There was silence for a moment, then a chuckle.
‘Oh no, Fletcher. I know what you’re trying to do,’ Didric laughed. ‘I won’t be fighting you today.’ His cackling echoed in the chamber, sending a shiver up Fletcher’s spine.
‘Fine, don’t fight me. Let’s hurry up and get this beating over with. I have things to do,’ Fletcher challenged over Didric’s laughter. He ran his hand along the lip of the stone covering the crypt entrance, frantically calculating. He knew that there was another entrance to the catacombs below, in an abandoned chapel just outside the graveyard. If he could somehow get this entrance open, he might be able to get out through there. He felt the telltale crack underneath that told him that a heavy tablet sealed the entrance. It was a long shot, but he would need to lever the lid off in slow stages so the others didn’t notice. It was a good thing Didric loved the sound of his own voice.
As Jakov and Calista joined in the laughter, Fletcher eased the tablet a fraction away from him, flinching as he heard the scrape of stone against stone. This was going to take longer than he thought.
‘You idiot, we aren’t here to beat you up either,’ Didric said with glee, barely containing his mirth. ‘No, we’re here to kill you, Fletcher. How perfect that you chose a graveyard to come to tonight. Hiding your body will be easy.’
Fletcher’s blood froze as he heard the rasp of swords being drawn from their scabbards. He gritted his teeth and heaved, succeeding in pushing the tablet back another inch, but it wasn’t enough. He needed more time.
‘Kill me? With Pinkertons in town? You’re more of a fool than I thought. Berdon knows where I am, he will go straight to them if I’m not home soon,’ he bluffed. But Didric ignored him and took a half-step forward.
Fletcher tried again. ‘Half the village saw our fight last night. You’re going to spend the rest of your lives in prison over a disagreement that only started two days ago?’
He spoke loudly, trying to cover the grating sound as he managed another few inches. Didric paused and laughed.
‘Oh, Fletcher. My dear father has the Pinkertons wrapped around his little finger,’ Didric said, un
concerned. ‘They’d sooner arrest each other than the son of their new business partner.’ Fletcher paused and tried to think. Business partner? What was Didric talking about?
‘In fact, perhaps I will tell you what transpired over dinner a few hours ago, just so you know what is going to happen to your precious village after you’re six feet under,’ Didric continued, blocking Jakov and Calista with his arms as they began to stride past him. ‘You two are going to learn why sticking with me is a good career move.’
‘Go on then. Enlighten me, why don’t you?’ Fletcher said, pushing the stone tablet far enough so that there was a crack of empty space below it. He caught a waft of trapped air from the crypt below, stale as old parchment.
‘As I’m sure that fraud soldier has told you, convicted criminals are going to be press-ganged into the army. A pessimal idea in my opinion, but where others see stupidity, my father sees opportunity,’ Didric boasted, leaning on his sword. ‘The prisoners will be transported by day, bedding down in each city’s prison at night, where they are safe and secure. Yet when they reach the northern-most city of Boreas, it is another two days to the elven front lines. That means they will have to overnight in the forest, not ideal at all. Why, any band of marauders could attack the convoy in the dead of night, and there would be no jail cells to keep the prisoners from escaping. But do you know what stands right between Boreas and the frontier? Our fair village of Pelt, of course.’
Fletcher was getting sick of Didric’s pretentious tone, but he knew that his life depended on the boy’s bragging.
‘So what? They can’t stay here. It’s too small. What are you going to do, hire out some of the spare rooms in your house?’ Fletcher said. He managed to slide his hands into the crack and grip the bottom of the stone lid, getting more leverage. He might be able to throw off the lid in one motion and dive in, but he would rather wait until Didric was in full flow and get a silent head start. He was probably going to need it, as the tablet covering the other entrance would need removing too.
Summoner: Book 1: The Novice Page 5