‘We captured a few gremlins, but watching them cower and piss their loincloths wasn’t very gratifying. They probably have more of a quarrel with the orcs than we do, what with them being enslaved and all,’ the man said, limping down to the arena with a lopsided gait.
‘Well come on, let’s see what you can do with that khopesh. Long time since I’ve seen one of them.’ The man brandished his staff and pointed it at Fletcher’s sword. ‘I may have lost my good hand in the war, but I can still teach you a thing or two with my left. Hell, I must be able to; that’s my job, isn’t it!’
‘Who the hell is that?’ Fletcher whispered, wondering what kind of madman would choose to spend his free time down in the dungeons. Jeffrey leaned in and whispered back.
‘That’s Sir Caulder. He’s the weapons master!’
Sir Caulder scraped a line in the sand with his staff and beckoned Fletcher closer.
‘Come on. I may be a cripple, but I’ve got things to do.’
Fletcher jumped into the arena and advanced towards him, cautioning Ignatius to stay beside Jeffrey with a thought. Sir Caulder winked at him and raised his hook in mock salute. ‘I know officer material when I see it, but can you fight like one?’
‘I don’t want to hurt you, sir. This sword is sharp,’ Fletcher warned him, unbuckling it and holding it out for him to see. It was the first time he had really held his weapon in his hand. The sword was far heavier than he had expected.
‘Aye, I may be old, but with age comes experience. This staff here is twice as dangerous a weapon in my one hand than that khopesh is in both of yours.’
Fletcher doubted it. The man was as skinny as a rake and about as tall too. He gave a half-hearted swipe at him, aiming so that he wouldn’t hit anything. The man made no move to defend himself, allowing the sword to graze harmlessly in front of his chest.
‘All right, boy, enough playing,’ Sir Caulder snapped.
The staff came thrumming through the air at Fletcher’s head and dealt him a stinging blow. Fletcher cried out and slapped his hand over his ear, feeling the blood as it ran in a hot trickle down his neck.
‘Come on, that sword wouldn’t even pierce this chain mail,’ the old man said with glee, prancing in front of Fletcher like a billy goat.
‘I wasn’t ready for that,’ Fletcher snarled, then stabbed at Sir Caulder’s stomach, two-handed. The staff came down like a hammer, knocking his sword so hard that it stabbed into the sand. Fletcher was rewarded with another swat to his cheek, leaving a wide welt.
‘That’s not going to look pretty in the morning,’ Sir Caulder cackled, jabbing at Fletcher’s stomach and causing him to stumble back.
‘You see, Jeffrey, they carry around their swords as if they’re just for show. Let me tell you, when an orc charges at you from the bushes, don’t think a musket ball is going to stop it. It’ll be using your rib as a toothpick before it even realises it’s been shot,’ Sir Caulder ranted, punctuating each word with a prod of his staff.
Fletcher’s patience had run out. He swung his khopesh in a wide arc, catching the staff in the curve and pushing it to the side. Then he charged in under Sir Caulder’s guard, shoulder barging the man to the ground, landing on top of him.
Before a shout of triumph could leave his lips, Sir Caulder’s knees scissored around his neck, choking off the words. His peg leg knocked against the back of Fletcher’s head. Fletcher dropped his sword and tried to pry open Sir Caulder’s thighs, but they were like twin bars of steel. The man tightened his hold, until Fletcher’s vision bruised. Then the world faded to black.
21
When consciousness returned, Fletcher could hear the sound of Ignatius hissing. He opened his eyes to find Jeffrey and Sir Caulder watching him from across the arena. Sir Caulder was swearing foully and there was the stench of burning in the air.
‘Goddamned demons, they should all be shot. It’s good, solid fighting that will kill orcs, not these abominations,’ he grumbled, fingering a blackened patch of cloth in the breast of his surcoat. Ignatius must have flamed at him when Fletcher fainted.
Fletcher rubbed his bruised throat ruefully and sat up. What was it with people trying to strangle him? Even Ignatius liked to wrap himself around his neck.
‘There’s something you’re forgetting,’ Fletcher croaked. ‘The orc shamans have twice the number of these abominations, as you call them. Do you think good solid fighting will beat them too? Why do you even teach here if you hate them so much?’
Sir Caulder and Jeffrey crossed the arena towards him, pausing every few steps in case Ignatius attacked again. Fletcher calmed Ignatius with soothing thoughts and then picked up the khopesh, buckling it back on to his belt.
‘I’m sorry, laddie. I was just blowing steam. The surcoat was my old uniform. It’s all I have left of the old days,’ Sir Caulder said, kicking at the sand with his stump.
‘Well, it is my fault too. I should have told Ignatius that this was a play fight, though I think we stretched the definition of the word play this time round. I’m sorry about your uniform. Can I replace it?’ Fletcher asked.
‘No. I fought under the Raleighs,’ Sir Caulder said, as if that explained everything.
‘The Raleighs?’ Fletcher asked. ‘Are they a noble family?’
‘Aye, that they were. Not any more though,’ Sir Caulder muttered. Fletcher could see pain in the man’s eyes, but his curiosity got the better of him.
‘Why? Did they fall out of favour with the King?’ Fletcher had never heard of that happening before, though Pelt was so far removed from the machinations of Hominum’s upper class it could be a regular occurrence for all he knew.
‘No, nothing like that, you idiot! I served under Lord Edmund Raleigh, a long time before the war. He was one of the nobles who owned estates on the southern frontier, so our lands were being constantly raided by orc marauders. In those days the military was too focussed on keeping the dwarves in check to send us any help, so as part of Raleigh’s bodyguard we had to deal with it on our own. Lord Raleigh was a good man and a close friend to the King, so don’t you go thinking he wasn’t!’ Sir Caulder ranted.
‘I meant no disrespect,’ Fletcher said, trying to be polite, ‘but I don’t understand how the Raleighs fell out of power.’
‘The orcs, boy. That’s who are to blame. They came in the dead of night, sneaking by all the livestock and the grain and everything else that my lads were protecting. We thought that was what they wanted, so why protect anything else?’ he said bitterly, clenching his fists at the memory.
‘They slaughtered everyone in the Raleigh family home; the women, the young children. When we got word of it, they were gone, taking the dead with them as trophies and tying them to the trees on the borders of their territory. Lord Raleigh put up a terrible fight. His Canid took three of the orcs out before they slit its belly open and left it to bleed to death. I put it out of its misery myself, poor thing. So don’t be thinking I have something against summoners either!’
Sir Caulder shuddered at the memory, then walked up the arena steps to an open door in the wall.
‘You’re not a bad fighter, but you’re going to need to learn how to fight against an orc. That shoulder barge wouldn’t have any effect and you’ll be fighting against heavy clubs and axes, not precision weapons. Come see me again and I’ll show you how,’ he said from the doorway, then disappeared inside with a satisfied grunt.
Jeffrey walked him to the entrance and lifted the torch to Fletcher’s face so he could see better in the dim light. Ignatius crawled on to Fletcher’s shoulder and purred at the sight of the flame.
‘He really did a number on you. That’s swelling up something fierce,’ Jeffrey said.
‘It doesn’t hurt that much.’ Fletcher touched the welt on his face and winced.
They returned in silence to the atrium, po
ndering Sir Caulder’s story as they made their way back up the tall staircase.
‘Tour’s over,’ Jeffrey groaned as they emerged into the atrium. ‘I need to get back to work now.’
‘Did you know about Sir Caulder and the Raleighs?’ Fletcher asked Jeffrey as the servant began to clean the floors again.
‘I knew about the Raleighs, but I had no idea Sir Caulder served under them. I do know the Raleigh incident was what set the war in motion. The King and his nobles began to expand Hominum’s borders in retaliation; cutting down their trees and razing their villages year after year. It was only when the albino orc began uniting the tribes that it became a proper war though,’ Jeffrey replied, scrubbing at the floor.
‘I can’t believe I hadn’t heard of it before.’ Fletcher scratched his head. It seemed that living so far north of Corcillum had limited his education on the politics of the wider world.
‘You wouldn’t. It was kept very hush-hush. The King doesn’t like the commoners to know that a noble line can be snuffed out, just like that. It’s only because noble offspring go here that I know about it; Sir Caulder never mentioned anything like that before,’ Jeffrey replied.
‘He must have cared about that uniform very much,’ Fletcher said, stroking Ignatius’s head.
‘Speaking of which, I can’t believe you haven’t had your clothes cleaned yet! It was a little nauseating in the confines of the corridor downstairs, Fletcher. Go back to your quarters and I’ll send someone to collect your clothes and take you to the baths. Seriously.’
22
The moon was full and bright in the cloudless sky. Fletcher shivered and pulled at his uniform’s collar; it was the only clothing that hadn’t been taken away for cleaning. Still, he had to wear something; it was freezing in the room and the tattered blanket on his bed did little to keep him warm. He leaned out of the glassless window and into the cold night air, thinking on the day.
The elf had remained in her room, which had suited Fletcher just fine. The rest of the group had been cheerful during lunch and dinner, eager for tomorrow and what wonders it would bring. Fletcher found that he enjoyed the company of the others, although the tension between Atlas and Othello left a strained undertone to the otherwise cheerful evening. He was particularly drawn to Seraph, whose clear charisma and knack for storytelling had everyone hanging on to his every word. Rory’s happy-go-lucky attitude had also endeared him to Fletcher, and although her efforts at salvaging his uniform had been in vain, he had found Genevieve to be a kind person with a dry sense of humour.
It was strange to know that they would all be risking their lives in the hot jungles of the south in just a few years. Although Fletcher tried to avoid thinking about it, the others were eager for battle. Genevieve was the only one who did not openly flaunt her wish to fight, although she spoke of the orcs with a dark fury that belied tragic experience.
Fletcher knew he should go to sleep, yet he felt too exhilarated to do so. Even the usually lazy Ignatius had caught his mood, playfully chasing his tail in the darkness of the room.
Fletcher held out his candle for Ignatius to light, then went out into the common room. As he entered, he saw a fading light in the stairwell, with the sound of hasty footsteps echoing from below.
‘Come on, Ignatius, looks like we aren’t the only ones who can’t sleep,’ Fletcher said. If it was going to be a restless night, he might as well have company.
The corridors were eerie at night, the chill draughts of air whistling through the arrow slits that peppered the outside of the castle. Fletcher’s candle flame flickered with each gust, until he had to cup it with one hand to keep it from going out.
‘I could do with one of those flying lights right now, don’t you think, Ignatius?’ he whispered.
The shadows shifted unnaturally as he moved down the corridor, the dark slits of every suit of armour staring at him as he walked past.
It seemed strange that whoever was ahead was moving so quickly, their pace closer to a jog than a midnight stroll. Fletcher hurried to keep up, his curiosity getting the better of him. Even when he reached the atrium, all he saw was the dim light and a swish of cloth as a figure darted out through the main entrance.
The courtyard was silent as a grave and twice as eerie when Fletcher set foot outside, but there was no sign of the mysterious person. He walked to the drawbridge and peered out at the road, looking for the candlelight. As he stared into the wavering gloom, he began to hear the steady clop of hoofbeats on the ground, coming towards the castle.
Fletcher darted into a small room built into the drawbridge’s gatehouse, blowing out the candle and pressing himself against the cold stone wall. Whoever it was, Fletcher didn’t want their first impression of him to be that of someone who liked to sneak around in the dead of night.
He quelled Ignatius’s excitement, impressing on him the need for silence with a stern thought. He remembered what happened the last time he had been in a cold stone room, hiding in the dark. At that memory, the imp responded with agreement and even a hint of what felt like regret. Fletcher smiled and scratched Ignatius’s chin. The imp understood more than he thought!
The chirr of spinning wheels and the crack of whips announced the arrival of carriages, rumbling as they crossed the old drawbridge. Fletcher peered through a chink in the stone of the room, hugging his arms to his chest for warmth. Was it the nobles? Perhaps one of the teachers was arriving early?
There were two carriages, both ornately decorated with golden trimming and lit by crackling torches. Two men rode on top of each, wearing dark, brass-buttoned suits and peaked caps that put Fletcher in mind of the Pinkertons’ uniforms. All of them carried heavy blunderbusses in their hands, ready to blast buckshot into anyone who ambushed their convoy. Precious cargo indeed.
The doors opened and several figures got out, wearing perfectly tailored versions of the Vocans uniform. In the dim glow of the torches it was hard to see their faces, but the one closest stepped in clear view.
‘Oh, dear,’ he said to the others in a posh, drawling voice. ‘I knew this place had gone to the dogs, but I didn’t think it was going to be this bad.’
‘Did you see the state of it, Tarquin?’ said a girl from the shadows. ‘It’s a wonder we made it over the drawbridge.’
Tarquin was a handsome boy with chiselled cheekbones and angelic blond hair that fell in curls down to the nape of his neck. Yet his blue-grey eyes seemed to Fletcher as hard and cruel as any he had seen before.
‘This is what happens when you let the riffraff in,’ Tarquin stated with a contemptuous sneer. ‘Standards are slipping. I’m sure when Father was here this place was twice what it is now.’
‘Still, at least the commoners can be given the commissions we don’t want,’ the girl said, out of Fletcher’s sight.
‘Yes, well, that is the silver lining,’ Tarquin said in a bored sounding voice. ‘The commoners can have the criminals and, if, heaven forbid, they allow dwarves to serve as officers, then they can command the half-men too. Keep everyone in their rightful place, that’s the way to do it.’
A girl stepped out from the gloom and stood beside him, squinting at the tall castle in front of them. She could have been Tarquin’s twin, with razor sharp cheekbones and cherubic hair curled in delicate blonde ringlets.
‘This is a disgrace. How can every noble child in Hominum be forced to live here for two years?’ she asked out loud, tucking an errant strand behind her ear.
‘Dear sister, this is why we are here. The Forsyths have not set foot in Vocans since father graduated. We are going to show this place how real nobles are meant to be treated,’ Tarquin replied. ‘Speaking of which, where are the servants? Be a dear and fetch them for us, would you, Isadora?’ he joked, pushing his sister towards the entrance.
‘Ugh! I’d rather have my head shaved than spend one second in the s
ervants’ quarters,’ she spat.
With those words the side door opened and Mayweather, Jeffrey and several other servants stumbled out, many still rubbing sleep from their eyes.
‘My apologies for our lateness, my lord,’ Mayweather said in a humble voice. ‘We had thought you would be arriving in the morning when you did not arrive before the eleventh bell.’
‘Yes, well, we decided that Corcillum’s drinking houses were a far more enticing place to be tonight than this . . . establishment,’ Tarquin said icily, then pointed at Jeffrey. ‘You, boy, take my bags up to my quarters and be careful with them. The contents are worth more than you’ll make in your lifetime.’
Jeffrey hastened to obey, giving the golden-haired nobles an awkward bow as he passed them.
‘Let me show you to your quarters, my lord. Follow me, both of you,’ Mayweather said, waddling up the steps as the servants unloaded the carriages. Fletcher caught a glimpse of the two nobles following Mayweather, then his view was obscured as the carriages wheeled around and thundered out of the courtyard.
Soon Fletcher was alone again, filled with disgust at what he had just witnessed. He had always pictured nobles as generous and fair, leading their own men to fight in the war and giving up their adolescent children to serve as battlemages. He knew that many of the nobility of fighting age risked their lives every day on the front lines, leaving their families at home. But he had found these spoiled brats to be the complete opposite of what he had expected. He hoped that not all the noble-born novices would be like the two specimens he had just encountered.
Fletcher waited a few minutes, then snuck out of the gatehouse, making his way back to the main entrance in the shadows of the courtyard walls. Just before he stepped into the moonlight, he heard a creak from the drawbridge behind him.
He spun round to see a figure just before it vanished out of sight, running down the road. A figure with long red hair.
Summoner: Book 1: The Novice Page 11