Summoner: Book 1: The Novice

by Taran Matharu

  Malik’s Anubid was one of the rarest cousins to the Canid, a demon that crouched on two legs, much like a Felid, with the head of a jackal and a smooth pelt of black hair. It was a close relative to Major Goodwin’s chosen demon, the Lycan, a similar creature with thick, grey fur and the head of a wolf. The Anubid was a popular demon amongst the battlemages that originated from the Akhad Desert, although the species had now been hunted to near extinction in Hominum’s part of the ether.

  Rufus’s demon was another Lutra, much to Atlas’s disappointment. Unusually, Rufus’s demon had been gifted to him in the same way that the commoners had been, through the forced donation of a summoning scroll. This was because his mother had died when he was a child and his father was not a summoner.

  The only thing Fletcher felt he had any natural ability in was swordsmanship. Sir Caulder had invited him for extra lessons, learning techniques specific to the khopesh. His main sticking point was controlling his aggression. According to Sir Caulder, patience was one of a swordsman’s most important virtues.

  ‘All right, everyone, gather here please!’ Arcturus yelled, snapping Fletcher from his reverie.

  The group gathered around him, their faces glowing with the exhilaration of finally learning one of the most practical lessons of spellcraft. The past few weeks had been more wyrdlight practice, channelling their mana and controlling its movement, size, shape and brightness. Arcturus’s reasoning had been that mastering the techniques learned with wyrdlights put them in good stead for when they eventually etched glyphs.

  ‘Now, many of you have been struggling with every attempt to produce a spell. More have struggled to do so in a timely fashion. Let me make myself clear. Both speed and reliability are essential for success as a battlemage,’ Arcturus said in a grave voice, looking them each in the eye. ‘Now, who can tell me which four spells are the staple of a battlemage?’

  Penelope raised her hand. ‘The shield spell, the fire spell and the lightning spell.’

  ‘Very good, but that is only three. Who can tell me the fourth?’

  ‘Telekinesis?’ Seraph suggested.

  ‘That’s right, the ability to move objects. Watch closely.’ Arcturus grinned.

  He raised his hand and etched a spiral in the air, as if he were stirring a cup of coffee. Suddenly he whipped his hand out and the hat he was wearing flicked up to the rafters, then floated down slowly to land on his head again. Fletcher could see a disturbance in the air below it, like a heatwave on a sunny day.

  ‘The art of moving objects is tricky, for, unlike the shield spell, fire spell or lightning spell, the telekinesis spell is nearly invisible to the naked eye. It’s much harder to lasso something and then manipulate it when you can’t see the rope you are using, so to speak. Most battlemages will simply blast it out; sending their opponent flying, but using a lot of mana.’

  Arcturus, looking slightly guilty, eyed a pile of scrolls that Penelope had brought with her. They were full of other symbols that Arcturus had instructed them to learn.

  ‘Of course there are hundreds of other spells. The healing spell for example, difficult but useful. It’s slow acting, so not much use in the heat of battle.’ Arcturus etched the heart symbol in the air to demonstrate. ‘There will be some symbols that you will need next year, but won’t be able to perform now, like the barrier spell. You’ll see that one in action during the tournament. In any case, stick with the four staples, and you won’t go far wrong in the challenge. You will need the others in the written exams, so you must learn them all! Class dismissed!’

  With those words, Arcturus turned on his heel and strode towards the door. The others began to chatter happily, but Fletcher did not feel like socialising. Instead, he chased after Arcturus and tugged on his sleeve.

  ‘Sir, do you mind if I ask, is Captain Lovett OK?’

  Arcturus turned and looked Fletcher in the eye, his brow furrowed with worry.

  ‘She’s in ethershock. She might never recover, or she may recover tomorrow. I try and read to her as often as I can,’ Arcturus said, tapping a book he held under his arm. ‘Fortunately for the captain, one of her demons, Valens, was not infused when the accident happened. She might be able to see through his eyes using her mind. Only extremely skilled summoners have managed to learn that ability, but Lovett is one of most skilled I have ever had the honour of knowing. If anyone can do it, she can.’

  He gave Fletcher an encouraging squeeze on the shoulder and forced a smile. ‘Now get some rest, you’ve worked hard today.’

  Fletcher nodded and wandered away, trudging up the stairs of the west wing. He was eager for the solitude of his room and the company of Ignatius, who was only allowed to be summoned during the occasional lesson.

  With Captain Lovett unconscious he felt more alone than ever. Although his friends were supportive and good company, they all had their own problems to deal with. Even Arcturus had been withdrawn lately, although whether it was because of Rook’s presence, disappointment in Fletcher or Lovett’s condition, was yet to be seen. Lovett had been fair and fearless, completely ambivalent to the differences in race and class of her students. Fletcher knew that he could have confided in her if he ever had any problems. Now . . . it was as if she were gone.

  His mind dulled by exhaustion, Fletcher turned on to the wrong floor, where the nobles had private rooms. As he groaned and turned back to the stairs, something caught his eye. It was a tapestry, depicting armoured figures in the midst of battle. He walked over to it and admired the intricate stitching that had brought it to life.

  The orcs were charging across a bridge, riding their war rhinos full tilt at a small group of men armed with pikes. At the very front of them stood a dominating figure, his arm outstretched with the spiral symbol etched in front of him. Beside him, a leonine Felid bared its fangs and seemed to roar at the oncoming horde.

  Fletcher leaned forward and read the plaque below it. The Hero of Watford Bridge.

  ‘Incredible. Scipio blasted aside an orc rhino charge,’ Fletcher murmured.

  Suddenly, he heard the sound of footsteps. Realising he was on a noble floor, Fletcher darted into a doorway and hid in the shadows. He did not want to have another encounter with Tarquin; not in the mood he was in.

  ‘. . . Did you see that buffoon’s face when his spell failed? I could have wept with laughter. The bastard thought he was so special. Now look at him,’ Tarquin drawled. The resultant titter revealed that he was with Isadora.

  ‘You are funny, Tarquin darling.’ Isadora giggled. ‘But we have not had time to talk today, not with those useless lessons. Tell me, what did Father’s letter say?’

  ‘You know he cannot tell us much, not in something as incriminating as a letter. But I could read between the lines. It is happening tonight. By tomorrow morning we will be the largest weapons manufacturer in Hominum. Then all we need to do is get rid of Seraph’s father and take over the Pasha munitions business. After that we will have the whole damned pie!’

  ‘Good. Our inheritance will be secure once again. But did he tell . . .’ Isadora’s voice faded as they entered one of the rooms and the door shut behind them. Fletcher realised he was holding his breath and let it out in a deep sigh. Whatever he had heard tonight, it was not good news at all.

  Fletcher was about to move out of his hiding place when he heard more footsteps. The steps came gradually closer until they stopped just outside the room Tarquin and Isadora had entered, then there was a deep breath.

  ‘Come on, Sylva. You can do this,’ Sylva’s lilting voice said.

  Fletcher gaped in surprise. Why was Sylva going to see the Forsyths at such a late hour?

  ‘Do what?’ Fletcher said, stepping out of the shadows.

  Sylva gasped and clapped her hands to her mouth.

  ‘Fletcher! What are you doing here?’

  ‘Do what?’ Fle
tcher repeated, furrowing his brow.

  ‘I’m here to . . . make peace with the Forsyths,’ she muttered, avoiding Fletcher’s eyes.

  ‘Why? What on earth could have possessed you to do that? They abandoned you when you needed them most!’ Fletcher exclaimed.

  ‘I have forgotten why I am here, Fletcher. I am an elf, the first summoner of my kind in hundreds of years. Not only that, but I am an ambassador. You and Othello have been good to me, and I bear you no ill will. But I cannot alienate the nobility, not with the relations between our countries at stake. Zacharias Forsyth is one of King Harold’s closest and oldest advisors and it is the King who will broker an alliance between our nations. Being friends with Zacharias’s children will sway him to our cause.’ Sylva spoke firmly, as if she had rehearsed the speech before.

  ‘But, Sylva, they don’t even like you. They only want your friendship for their own ends!’ Fletcher insisted.

  ‘As I do theirs. I’m sorry, Fletcher, but I have made up my mind. This doesn’t change anything between us, but it is how things must be,’ she stated.

  ‘Oh yes it does! You think I’ll trust you when you’re friends with those two vipers?’ Fletcher blurted, pushing past her.

  ‘Fletcher, please!’ Sylva begged him.

  But it was too late. Fletcher stormed away, his misery replaced with fury that boiled inside him.

  Damn the elf and her politics. Damn the nobles too! Everything was falling apart; his friendships, his studies. He couldn’t even contact Berdon with Rook looking over his shoulder.

  At the top of the stairs Rory, Seraph and Genevieve were chatting, elated by their success. Fletcher sunk into a chair behind them, hoping they would not notice him. He was in no mood to talk.

  ‘I think that maybe my fulfilment level is increasing!’ Rory said, full of joy. ‘I was doing pretty well! Maybe Malachi is going up in levels too!’

  ‘I don’t think you understand how fulfilment levels work, Rory,’ Seraph said mildly. ‘Your ability to perform the spell has nothing to do with your level. Fulfilment just impacts how much demonic energy you can absorb. Malachi will never go up in level. He will always be level one. Every demon remains at the same level for the rest of their lives. Even if your demon becomes stronger or bigger, that will never change.’

  ‘Oh . . .’ Rory muttered. ‘But why was Tarquin yelling at Fletcher about how Ignatius was a lower level than Trebius, if it doesn’t have anything to do with their power?’

  ‘Because it’s usually a rough guide. A level-seven demon is probably going to be stronger than a level six, just as a rule of thumb. It’s not a hard and fast rule. For example, a Felid will beat a Canid in a fight nine times out of ten, even though they are both level seven. Or look at Othello’s Golem. When it is full grown, it will be many times more powerful than a Canid, even though it is a level eight and a Canid is level seven.’

  ‘Right . . . never mind then.’ Rory’s face was glum once again.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m sure you will go up in level,’ Seraph said, noticing Rory’s change in mood. ‘Major Goodwin told me it is very rare for a summoner to remain at the same level their entire lives. It is only the ones who never capture other demons or who are very unlucky in their natural fulfilment growth who stay that way.’

  ‘How am I supposed to capture other demons if Rook won’t let us go hunting?’ Rory howled, jumping to his feet.

  ‘Rory, wait. It’s just one year!’ Genevieve tried to reason, but Rory ignored her and left for his room in a huff. She gave Seraph an exasperated look and then followed Rory into the boys’ quarters.

  Seraph bit his lip and sighed. ‘I’ve put my foot in it again. I was just trying to temper his expectations, nothing more,’ he muttered.

  The room was silent then, as Seraph scribbled notes for their next demonology essay. Eventually, Seraph grew tired and snuffed out his wyrdlight, casting the room in shadow. He stood and began to walk to his room.

  ‘Wait,’ Fletcher said, holding up his hand. ‘I need to ask you something.’

  ‘Sure, what’s up?’ Seraph asked with a yawn.

  ‘What does your father do? I ask because I overheard Tarquin mentioning something . . . It was about taking your father down and it has something to do with his business.’

  Seraph froze. Fletcher could see some kind of internal struggle, then Seraph relaxed and sat down in the chair next to him.

  ‘I guess if I know your secrets it is only right I tell you mine. Just promise me you will not breathe a word of this to anyone.’

  Fletcher nodded in assent and Seraph continued.

  ‘I was born and raised in Antioch, the same city where Malik and his family, the Saladins, are from. Malik’s family do not own great tracts of forest and farmland like the other nobles, but rather they hold many businesses and properties in Antioch. This is because the city is surrounded by desert, where nothing grows and there is little water.’

  ‘So the Saladins are involved?’ Fletcher asked.

  ‘Not quite. My father took a risk. He bought up huge parts of the desert. It was cheap land, but virtually useless. I remember my parents arguing all night long when he spent all of our savings on it. Then one day, a dwarf came to visit us. He told us that the dwarves do not have the right to own land outside of what they were allocated in Corcillum, but he and his people needed it. The nobles would not do business with the dwarves, but perhaps we would.’

  ‘I knew the dwarves had something to do with it!’ Fletcher exclaimed, then realised how loud he was being and put a finger to his lips. For a moment he thought he heard a noise from the boy’s quarters. When they were confident no one was there, Seraph spoke again.

  ‘It turned out the dwarves needed metals and sulphur, in large quantities. They had surveyed our land and found deposits underneath the sand, deep underground. Without their expertise, we wouldn’t be able to extract it, but without our land, neither would they. So we struck a deal . . . they would help us set up the mines and lend us the money we needed to hire men and the equipment. In exchange, we would partner with the dwarves exclusively, not selling to anyone else. They process the materials and then we split the profits fairly.’

  ‘But why sulphur?’ Fletcher asked. Everything was starting to make sense.

  ‘It is used in the production of gunpowder. The best part is, only the Akhad Desert seems to have any significant quantities of it and we own all the land that is near enough to civilisation for mining to be viable. Every lead bullet fired and every barrel of gunpowder used is produced in a Pasha mine or factory.’

  ‘So why do the Forsyths care about any of this?’ Fletcher asked.

  ‘Don’t you know anything? Their biggest business is arms production. They are the chief supplier of swords, armour, helmets, even the uniforms. When the dwarves developed muskets . . . their business began to shrink. Dwarven weaponry is slowly becoming more popular, and when they’re fighting with muskets, soldiers don’t need to wear armour any more, as they can do battle from a distance. I don’t think the Forsyths know how to take us down just yet, but I wouldn’t be surprised if they are planning it.’

  ‘They mentioned something about an important event happening tonight, but they spoke about dealing with your father afterwards,’ Fletcher warned, trying to remember Tarquin’s exact words.

  ‘It’s too late to do anything about it, but my father is well protected. I wouldn’t worry too much. I was hoping Tarquin and Isadora wouldn’t know who I was, but I think I might have some idea of how they found out.’ Seraph smiled as he spoke, as if he had been waiting for an excuse to tell his secret.

  ‘First we lost a noble family called the Raleighs, then the Queensouths and the Forsyths united into one house. King Harold had suddenly lost two of his oldest noble families. He wanted to create new noble houses, taking the few second and third-born no
bles who had also been born adepts and giving them their own titles. But the nobles hated this idea, since they usually married them to firstborns of other noble houses. So the King looked elsewhere. My father has a good relationship with the dwarves, owns plenty of land and is now almost as wealthy as a noble himself. But that is not enough. To become a noble, you must be an adept. Then one day the Inquisitors came by, to test me . . .’

  ‘. . . And they discovered you were an adept,’ Fletcher said, realisation dawning on him. ‘You can start a new line of nobility, since your firstborn children will be adepts too.’

  ‘Exactly. He will make the announcement publicly next year, but the nobles have already been told. I don’t think I am very popular with the twins right now, or even Malik for that matter.’

  Fletcher sat in silence, trying to process everything he had just been told.

  ‘Goodnight, Fletcher,’ Seraph said, padding out of the room. ‘Remember . . . it’s our little secret.’

  40

  The war drums beat with a mad fervour, throbbing the night air with pulsing intensity. Row upon row of orcs clapped and stamped to the rhythm, punctuating the end of each cycle with a guttural ululation.

  The Salamander curled around an orc shaman’s neck, watching the proceedings below. The raised platform they stood upon was the epicentre around which all the orcs were gathered, lit by roaring bonfires on each corner. Gremlin slaves scampered back and forth, dragging wood from the surrounding jungle to keep the fires stoked high.

  Suddenly, the drumbeat stopped. The imp started at the abrupt silence and yawned noisily. The orc shaman hushed him and slipped a morsel of flesh into his mouth, stroking the Salamander’s head with affection.