Summoner: Book 1: The Novice

by Taran Matharu

  A bellow blasted from behind him, a deep bass roar that reminded Fletcher of a mountain bear. The people around them turned and scrambled away, leaving a few feet of empty space.

  ‘Ignatius!’ Fletcher shouted, sending the demon on to his shoulder with a thought. The imp discharged a heavy plume of flame into the air, scaring the rest of the crowd into giving them a wider berth. As a path opened, they hurled themselves up the stairs and on to the stage.

  Fletcher took in the scene at a glance. Sylva’s head was being held on a block by the angry speechmaker, who was kneeling beside her prone figure. Grindle had his club raised, about to smash her head to pieces. The poor girl was blindfolded – she wouldn’t even see it coming.

  Ignatius reacted instinctively, spitting a ball of fire that took the fat man high in the shoulder and blasted him off his feet. As the heavy body collapsed to the ground, Othello sprinted in and kicked the speechmaker in the side of the head with a sharp crack, knocking him out cold.

  Three more men charged at the dwarf, armed with cudgels not unlike those the Pinkertons carried. Othello took a blow to the face and went down like a puppet with its strings cut. Before the man could swing again, Solomon punched the man in the leg, bending it sideways with a sickening crunch. The Golem clambered on to his chest and stamped down. The pop of snapping ribs made Fletcher’s stomach churn.

  The other two began to advance, swinging their cudgels with practised ease. Fletcher blanched and danced backwards to buy himself more time, wishing he had not left his bow in his room. This was going to be tricky.

  ‘All right, Ignatius. Sic ’em,’ Fletcher said. Ignatius leaped from his shoulder, a whirlwind of claws and flame. He landed on the closest man’s face and hissed, his thin tail-spike stabbing back and forth like a scorpion’s sting.

  Before the other man could interfere, Fletcher ran in. As the cudgel swung at him, he blasted a flash of wyrdlight from his hand, blinding the man with a beam of blue light. He kicked him in the fork of his legs, then kneed him in the nose as he doubled over. Rotherham had been right; gentlemen’s fighting was for gentlemen. Ignatius had torn the other man’s face apart; he was rolling on the floor moaning whilst Ignatius lapped at his bloody snout with relish. Gone was the demon’s puppy-like innocence.

  Sylva was trussed up like a turkey, but she struggled wildly on the floor. Solomon was wailing, burying his stony face in Othello’s beard.

  Fletcher tugged off Sylva’s blindfold, then plucked at the knots with fingers made clumsy by the cold. The ropes were swollen from the wet, but they loosened as he tugged at them. All the time the crowd watched on, as if he were an actor on a stage and they the theatregoers.

  ‘Get them off, get them off!’ Sylva screamed. Her eyes were rolled back in her head. How on earth had she got herself into this situation? The last time he saw her she was with Isadora, back at Vocans.

  Then the side of Fletcher’s head erupted in pain and he was on his back, the white of the canvas above filling his vision. Grindle’s gross bald head swam into focus, his club raised once more. It was an ugly, misshapen thing, all knotted and pitted like a roughly-hewn tree branch.

  ‘Race traitor,’ Grindle hissed. His shoulder was a mess of blackened cloth and burned flesh.

  He clutched Ignatius by the neck as if he were holding a chicken, the demon’s tailspike stuck in his flabby arm. Fletcher’s heart filled with hope as Ignatius’s chest expanded, but nothing left the demon’s nostrils but a thin trickle of smoke. The fat man laid his foot across Fletcher’s neck to hold him still, then centred the club at his head. Fletcher closed his eyes and prayed it would be a quick death.

  He heard a scream and then a thud. A weight fell across him, crushing his chest and knocking the wind out of him. He opened his eyes to see Sylva, holding a bloody cudgel in her hands. The fat man gurgled in Fletcher’s ear.

  He struggled to lift the body, but it felt like he was trying to shift a tree.

  ‘I can’t breathe,’ Fletcher gasped with the last of the air in his lungs. Sylva crouched and pushed with all her might, but the body barely budged. Fletcher’s heartbeat pounded in his eardrums, the pulse erratic and frantic. The edges of his vision began to darken as he wheezed, snatching tiny mouthfuls of air.

  Then Othello was there, staggering on to the scene with blood running down the side of his face. The elf and the dwarf heaved at the body until Fletcher could breathe once again, deep sobbing gasps that tasted sweeter than honey.

  ‘You monsters!’ Sylva cried, spitting at the silent onlookers.

  ‘Let’s get the hell out of here,’ Othello said, looking at the crowd in disgust.

  They lifted Fletcher to his feet then staggered down the steps like three drunks, almost unable to stand. This time, the rabble parted to give them a wide berth.

  They lurched down the deserted streets, rain beating down on them in waves as the wind blew and ebbed. Othello seemed to know the way, leading them down tight alleyways and backstreets until they arrived at the main road that had brought them into Corcillum. They had no idea if they were being followed. Sundown would arrive at any minute, yet with Sylva in tow there was no way they could stay overnight in a tavern.

  The trio walked for two hours without seeing a single cart or wagon. Sylva was dressed in nothing more than a silken gown, and she had somehow lost her shoes in her capture. She was shivering so violently that she could barely get her arms through Fletcher’s jacket when he offered it to her.

  ‘We need to stop and rest!’ Fletcher shouted over the roar of the wind and rain. Othello nodded, too tired to even look up from the road. His face was ashen white, and red-tinged rivulets of water trickled down the side of his face. The head wound was too wet to close up of its own accord.

  There were green cornfields on either side of them, but Fletcher could see a wooden roof peeking out over the top, a few hundred yards to their right.

  ‘This way!’ he yelled, pulling them off the road. They brushed through the heavy stalks, snapping their brittle stems underfoot. Solomon led the way, desperate to get his master to safety.

  It was nothing more than a glorified shed, long since abandoned. Fletcher’s heart dropped for a moment when he saw the outside had been locked up with a rusted chain, but Solomon snapped it with a blow from his stone fist.

  The inside was damp and musty, filled with old barrels of flour that had succumbed to rot. Yet to be out of the torrent that pelted down on them was bliss.

  Sylva and Othello collapsed to the floor, huddling together to keep warm. Fletcher slammed the door behind him and slumped down to the ground too. This was not how he had imagined his trip to Corcillum would go.

  ‘Don’t worry, guys, I’m going to warm you up. Ignatius, come down.’ The imp scampered down his arm and looked at him miserably. The little creature’s neck was bruised a dark red from Grindle’s grip. He took a deep breath and let out a thin plume of flame, but in the damp air it did nothing but illuminate their near pitch-black surroundings. The only light came from cracks in the walls, which also let in chilling draughts of wind. There had to be another way. If Fletcher didn’t do something, they would likely catch their death.

  Solomon growled, then began to tear apart some of the barrels. The Golem’s hands were like stone mittens, but the opposable thumb gave him enough dexterity to crack the rotten timbers and throw them into the centre of the room.

  ‘Stop, Solomon, save your energy,’ Othello muttered. The demon paused, then gave Othello an apologetic rumble. He growled and motioned at the barrels, pointing with his stubby hands.

  ‘Oh, all right,’ Othello said, waving his hand in defeat. Solomon continued his work, but more methodically this time. What on earth was he doing?

  ‘He’s building a fire! Come on, before Sylva goes into shock,’ Fletcher said. The elf was still shuddering, hugging her knees to her chest. He coul
dn’t imagine the day she’d had. The escape had left the tips of her ears wind-bitten and red with cold.

  Soon the wood was stacked high, but Fletcher put most of it aside for later. Solomon pummelled some planks into splinters to work as tinder, then Ignatius blew repeated bursts of flame until the fire flickered into life. Soon a warm light filled the shed, the smoke wafting up and out of the cracks in the corners of the roof. The wood was punky and slow burning, as rotten timber so often is. Though it added to the musty smell in the air, the chill slowly left their bones and their wet clothes began to dry on their bodies. Even so, it was going to be a long night.

  31

  Fletcher started, then looked around the room. Othello was moodily poking the flames with a stick. He was topless, his shirt and jacket left to dry out beside the fire.

  ‘I must have drifted off. How long was I out?’ Fletcher asked, sitting up. His clothes were still damp, but he decided to leave them on. He supposed that Sylva would not be pleased with such a lapse in decorum. Yet, to his surprise, she was sitting on the other side of the fire, ripping the bottom of her dress off in a long strip. Ignatius was curled up beside her, his back warmed by the flames.

  ‘Only a few minutes, Fletcher,’ she said, handing the strip to Othello. ‘Here, use it to wrap your head. It will help it heal.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Othello said, with a look of happy astonishment on his face. ‘I appreciate it. I’m sorry you had to ruin your dress.’

  ‘That’s the least of my worries. How stupid of me, to think I could walk the streets of Corcillum in the middle of a war and not suffer the consequences.’

  ‘Why did you?’ Fletcher asked, furrowing his brow.

  ‘I thought I would be safe with the Forsyths. They walked with their demons in plain sight and we were given a wide berth. In hindsight, I am not surprised.’ She wrung her hands in frustration. ‘I am sure if a man was to saunter into elven territory, he would suffer a similar fate. There are race haters on both sides of the frontier.’

  ‘I’m glad you feel that way. I wouldn’t blame you for thinking the worst of us and convincing your father to end all chances of an alliance between our peoples,’ Fletcher said, shuffling over to the fire and warming his numbed hands.

  ‘No, it has only strengthened my resolve,’ Sylva replied, gazing into the flames. Gone was the haughty girl who had looked down her nose at them. This person was someone entirely more righteous.

  ‘How so?’ asked Fletcher.

  ‘If even the false war we pretend to fight has created so much hate between our peoples, what would a real one do?’ she explained, pushing more wood into the fire.

  ‘What is the feeling amongst the elves?’ Othello asked, removing his boots and letting his socks dry by the crackling fire. Solomon dutifully picked them up and held them close to the flames.

  ‘Some understand it, saying that joining with humans to fight in the south is worth it if it keeps the orcs from our doorsteps. Others claim that the orcs would never raid so far north, even if the Hominum Empire fell,’ Sylva answered, wrinkling her nose at the cheesy smell of the dwarf’s feet. ‘But my father is an old chieftain. He remembers the stories his father told to him, of the days the orcs laid waste to our villages, slaughtering us for sport and gathering our warriors’ heads as trophies. The younger elves are barely aware that it was the orc marauders that made us make our homes in the great oaks of the north in the first place, thousands of years ago. Even when we did, that only slowed the orcs down. It was the first humans who allied with us, driving them back to their jungles and patrolling the borders. Our alliance existed since the first men crossed the Akhad Desert, yet over time and countless generations it fell into non-existence.’

  ‘We were allied with the elves?’ Fletcher asked, wide-eyed with incredulity.

  ‘I studied the history of our two peoples before coming here on my diplomatic mission. We elves can live for two hundred years, so our historians’ memories are longer than yours. King Corwin, the first King of Hominum, led a war against the orcs on our behalf. It was the elves who taught him and his ilk how to summon in exchange for his protection, creating the first noble houses of Hominum.’

  ‘Wow. I had no idea you had a hand in creating our empire,’ Fletcher marvelled. ‘Nor that elves were the first summoners.’

  ‘Not so,’ Sylva murmured. ‘The orcs were summoning long before we were. But theirs was a rough, nascent art, small imps and nothing more. Would that it were so today—’

  ‘I have a question,’ Othello interrupted. ‘Why didn’t you bring your own demon? Surely you must have your own demons over there, if you taught men how to summon in the first place?’

  ‘That is a difficult question to answer. We had a long period of peace after the Hominum Empire was founded. Whilst the dwarves were rebelling and the orcs were raiding the kingdom of man, the elves remained in relative safety. So, our need for using demons to defend ourselves passed. Of course there were other factors. For example, the summoning of demons was banned for a brief period four centuries ago, when duelling came into fashion amongst our clan chieftains’ heirs. Eventually there were no more demons to gift as they were either killed in these duels or released back into the ether.’

  Othello’s stomach rumbled and Sylva laughed; the sombre tone of the room rushed away.

  ‘I’ve got an idea,’ Fletcher said, standing. After a moment’s hesitation he jumped outside. Thirty seconds later he rushed back into the shed, soaked to the skin once again but holding an armful of corn.

  As he settled back down Fletcher noticed something he hadn’t before. Othello’s back was tattooed in black, depicting a hammer crossed with a battle-axe. The level of detail was extraordinary.

  ‘That’s a beautiful tattoo, Othello. What does it mean?’ Fletcher enquired.

  ‘Oh, that. It’s a dwarven sigil. They are the two tools that dwarves use. It represents the axe for our prowess in battle and the hammer for our skill as craftsmen. I never liked the idea of tattoos though. I don’t need marks on my skin to tell the world that I am a true dwarf,’ Othello grumbled.

  ‘Why did you get it then?’ Sylva asked, spitting a few ears of corn on a rusted pitchfork and holding it over the flames.

  ‘My brother had it tattooed on him, so I had to do the same. Sometimes I need to take the rap for him. It makes more sense that we look identical. The Pinkertons take off your shirt when they . . . punish you.’

  Sylva continued to look at him with a mix of bafflement and horror, then her eyes widened as they settled on Othello’s scars.

  ‘We’re twins, not that the Pinkertons could tell the difference usually anyway; one dwarf is the same as another to them,’ Othello explained.

  ‘So . . . you’re like Isadora and Tarquin then,’ she ventured. ‘I’ve always wondered what it would be like to be a twin.’

  ‘I thought they were twins, but I wasn’t sure,’ Fletcher said, trying to picture the two nobles.

  ‘Of course they are,’ Othello said. ‘It’s always the first-born who inherits the ability to summon, twins included. The other children have a much smaller chance, although it happens sometimes. Nobody is quite sure why, but it has certainly helped consolidate power in the noble houses. Firstborn sons and daughters inherit the entire estate, so the lands are not portioned out to multiple children in the majority of cases. The Forsyths have enough land for two though, that’s for sure.’

  The dwarf pulled an ear of corn from the pitchfork and bit into it greedily, blowing on his fingers.

  ‘So tell me, Sylva, what were you doing in Corcillum? Did you see Genevieve and the others in the perfumery?’ Fletcher asked, trying to put aside the fact that she had almost got them killed.

  ‘The nobles took me in a carriage to the town square. Then Isadora and Tarquin brought me to the flower district, as they wanted fresh roses for the
ir rooms. I was wearing a headscarf to cover my ears and hair, so I did not think there would be a problem. But my eyes, they must have given me away. That fat man, Grindle, he tore my shawl from my head and dragged me down an alleyway with his friends. Isadora and Tarquin ran at the first sign of trouble. They did not even look back. I didn’t have a summoning leather with me, so Sariel remained infused within me. I’ll never make that mistake again.’

  ‘Summoning leather?’ Othello questioned, finishing off the last of his cob and reaching for another. Sylva slapped his hand away playfully.

  ‘Greedy! Fletcher, have some. I noticed none of you came down for lunch at the canteen earlier, you should eat something.’

  ‘Thanks. All I had for lunch was an apple,’ Fletcher said, grabbing an ear for himself. He bit into the soft kernels, each one bursting with cloying sweetness in his mouth.

  ‘A summoning leather,’ Sylva turned back to Othello, ‘is just a pentacle printed on a square cut of leather, which would allow me to summon Sariel when she has been infused within me. I’m not sure if your summoners call it that today. The documents I found on summoning practices were pretty ancient.’

  ‘I can’t believe that Tarquin and Isadora ran away!’ Fletcher exclaimed through a mouthful of corn.

  ‘That’s not the worst part. They both had their demons out when I was captured. I suspect it was the sight of them that attracted so much attention in the first place.’

  ‘Those cowards,’ Othello growled.

  ‘And their full-fledged demons are inherited from their mother and father,’ Sylva continued. ‘They could have taken several times the number of men that attacked me. If I had been standing closer to them, the men would have never attacked, but I was getting sick of their narcissistic chatter so I walked away for a moment.’ Sylva paused, delicately biting into her own cob.

  ‘Why did you try and befriend them if you didn’t like them?’ Fletcher asked.

  ‘I am here as a diplomat. Who would you think it best to befriend if I am to broker an alliance between our two peoples? I know now of course that the best way is to become an officer as soon as possible and make a name for myself in battle, not suck up to spoiled children with no real power. That will get the word out, if it is known that the elves have some fight in them.’