‘You miss the point, as I knew you would,’ Didric said with exaggerated exasperation. ‘We’re going to call in our debts, Fletcher. Seize everyone’s houses and turn this whole village into a prison. Imagine charging the same price as a luxurious inn, whilst serving gruel and bedding made of straw. Full bookings every night, all payments guaranteed from the King’s treasury. Think of the profits! Our redundant guards will become the warders, the palisades will keep people in, not out! And if a prisoner escapes, the wolves will take them, if they don’t get lost in the forest. The Pinkertons have already signed the agreement. Even if the law doesn’t go ahead, our prison will be the most remote and secure ever made, away from the good people of the city.’
It took a few seconds for the words to sink in. Their beautiful home, hundreds of generations old, made into a prison. Most of the townsfolk would have their properties seized, unable to pay the debts that were ten times more than they had borrowed. It was too horrific to even contemplate, yet he clung on to one hope, a glaring problem that Caspar must have overlooked.
‘It will never work, Didric. The elven front doesn’t need conscripts. They send the dregs up to wait there until retirement. And even the chaffed don’t visit Pelt, travelling through the night or making camp in the woods to save paying for an inn,’ Fletcher pointed out, pushing the tablet far enough that he could now climb through the gap. But he waited – he needed to know more. The villagers had to be warned.
‘Not so stupid after all, Fletchy. But you’re wrong. Dead wrong.’ Didric chuckled at his little joke and gave his sword a threatening swing. ‘You see, the elven front is the perfect place for a training ground. Get them prepared for war in a relatively safe place with experienced warriors to teach them, then ship them down to the south when they’re ready. No, Fletchy, this plan is going to be perfect. But there’s one thing I haven’t told you. I think you’ll like this.’ Didric paused, waiting for Fletcher to ask him what it was.
Fletcher’s heart sank. Of course, if the prisoners went directly to the orc front, it would be chaos. The King’s army couldn’t fight a war and try to contain thousands of freshly released criminals at the same time. If there was a riot, the soldiers would end up fighting on two fronts. Better to teach the new recruits discipline and indoctrinate them up here, before sending them to reinforce Hominum’s beleaguered army in the south.
‘What is it, Didric?’ Fletcher snarled. He could feel anger bubbling, caustic and hot in his chest. Didric’s family were like ticks, sucking the life from Pelt. Now they were infecting it too.
‘Just before the deal was done, I remembered you, Fletchy. You and that great oaf, Berdon. I reminded my father that the new recruits were going to need to be equipped, then suggested a rather elegant solution. So the Pinkertons made an addendum to the agreement – giving us exclusive selling rights to the new conscripts on the elven front. Only weapons and armour sold by our family can be purchased by their quartermasters. We begin shipping from Boreas within the week, and trust me when I say that, in the quantities we will be buying, our prices will be half what Berdon is charging. So, you see, as that redheaded fool mourns your death, he will become penniless. Who knows, maybe we will let him work as a stable boy. That’s all he’s good for, after all.’
Even in the darkness, Fletcher could see the satisfied grin on Didric’s face. The rage inside him burned like Berdon’s furnace, quickening his heart until he could almost hear the blood rushing in his ears. Hatred throbbed in his body with each heartbeat, pulsing at his temples. He had never wanted to kill someone before, but now he understood the compulsion. Didric needed to die.
With that thought, he felt the link between him and the imp, as if it were a house spider hanging from a thread of gossamer. His anger flowed through it with a potent ferocity, and he felt the demon’s consciousness fill with the same intent as his own. Didric was an enemy, a threat.
‘Nothing to say? That wasn’t as satisfying as I thought it would be.’ Didric sighed to the others, lifted his sword and stepped forward. ‘Right . . . let’s kill him.’
12
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 Berd
on 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.
13
It had been two days. Two days on the run, cutting back and forth to leave false trails. No food, no sleep, only drinking when he waded down the mountain streams, trying to kill his scent and leave no footprints. Whenever he stopped to rest, he could hear the bark of the hunting dogs in the distance.
At night he would climb to the top of a tall tree to check his direction by the constellations in the sky. When he did, he saw the flicker of campfires in the valleys above him. The whole town guard and probably most of the hunters were chasing him. Didric’s father, Caspar, must have put a huge bounty on his head.
Now, on the third night, he could only see tiny pinpricks of light halfway up the mountain. They had turned back, the trail gone cold. He breathed a sigh of relief and began the long climb down, careful not to lose his footing. Any injury, even a sprained ankle, could mean death now.
He did not let himself become too complacent. Lord Faversham, a powerful noble, owned most of the land around the base of Beartooth. He was notorious for sending patrols of his men through the forest to catch poachers. Fletcher would have trouble explaining to them why he was travelling alone, so far away from the safe mountain paths.
The demon hissed with displeasure at being disturbed when he dropped to the ground. It had stayed in its customary position around his neck since he left the village. Fletcher was glad that it had. He had been cold and wet through for far too long, but the furnace in the demon’s belly kept his neck and shoulders warm at least.
Fletcher looked around, then decided that the base of the oak tree was as good a place as any to camp. The ground was flat and covered in springy moss. The tree’s canopy would keep off the worst of any rain and, although it was too late to build a shelter, there were plenty of dead branches lying around for a small fire.
He stacked a pile of kindling together, then used a flint and the steel of his blade to spark at the tinder.
‘You couldn’t spare us some of that fire now, could you?’ Fletcher asked the demon, as the damp leaves he was using spluttered against the sparks. The demon unravelled at the sound of his voice, slinking down his arm to the ground. It yawned and looked at him with curiosity, cocking its head to the side like a confused puppy.
‘Come on. There’s got to be a way we can communicate,’ Fletcher said, curling his fingers under the demon’s chin and scratching it. The demon chirped and rubbed his hand with the side of its head. With each rub, Fletcher could feel a hint of a deep satisfaction on the edge of his consciousness, like an itch being scratched.
‘Fire!’ Fletcher announced, pointing at the woodpile. The demon ya
pped and whirled in a circle.
‘Shhh,’ Fletcher hushed, a flash of fear running through him. The lower mountains were notorious for wolves. He had already heard their howls in the distance. They had been lucky so far to avoid them.
The demon silenced and cowered, crawling between his legs. Had it understood? Fletcher sat cross-legged in the damp, wincing as the back of his trousers became wet. He closed his eyes and wracked his brains, trying to remember if Rotherham had mentioned anything in his stories about how summoners controlled their demons.
As he did so, he sensed the consciousness of the demon, just as confused, scared and alone as himself. He sent it a wave of comfort and felt the demon stiffen, then relax, the fear and loneliness replaced by simple tiredness and hunger. Then it clicked. That was how: it didn’t understand his words, it sensed his emotions!
He sent the demon a feeling of coldness, but the demon simply shrilled in discomfort and wrapped itself around his leg. Given how warm its body felt, Fletcher suspected it was not very familiar with any temperature other than one of warmth. Perhaps . . . an image? He pictured fire, bringing back memories of the hot furnace in Berdon’s forge.
The demon chirruped and blinked its round, amber eyes at him. Perhaps fire reminded the little creature of home. Fletcher rubbed his numbed hands together in frustration; this was going to be harder than he’d thought. He slumped and pulled his threadbare jacket closer around his shoulders.
‘If I had managed to buy that jacket at the market, we wouldn’t even need a fire,’ Fletcher grumbled. He stared at the woodpile, willing it to burst into flame. Without warning, a gout of fire shot from between his legs, flaring the dank wood into a cracking blaze.
‘You clever little thing!’ Fletcher whooped, gathering the imp up in his arms and hugging it close to his chest. Already he could feel the warmth seeping back into his frozen limbs. He smiled as the mellow glow brought back fond memories of Berdon’s forge.
Summoner: Book 1: The Novice Page 6