Summoner: Book 1: The Novice

by Taran Matharu

  A groan cut through the silence behind them. An elf was lashed to a crosspiece, his hands and feet cruelly bound to the wood. His face was swollen and covered in crusted blood, but his worst injury was a large square of raw flesh on his back, where a piece of skin had been removed. Behind him, another orc was scraping the skin with a serrated rock, removing any residual traces of fat, flesh and sinew.

  The elf croaked desperately, but his throat was too parched to form words with any meaning. The orc shaman lashed out with a foot, kicking the elf in the stomach. He choked and hung against his restraints, gasping like a fish out of water.

  A whispering began from the mass of orcs below. The crowds parted, revealing a procession entering the encampment. There were ten orcs; large, muscular specimens whose grey skin was painted with red and yellow ochres. Their weaponry was primitive yet fearsome; heavy war clubs that were studded with jagged rocks.

  Yet they were not alone. Another orc walked behind the others, dwarfing them in size. His skin was a pale white and his eyes glowed red in the firelight. He walked with easy confidence, accepting the awed looks from the surrounding orcs as his due.

  As the group approached the platform, the elf began to cry out, struggling against his bindings. This time, the orc shaman made no move to silence him. Instead, he kneeled, bowing his head deeply as the albino orc climbed the platform, leaving his bodyguard below.

  The albino orc lifted the shaman to his feet and embraced him. As he did so, the crowd roared in approval, stamping their feet until the platform shook. Even through all the noise, the elf’s desperate cries could be heard as he pulled at the leather straps that held him in place.

  The cheers died out as the albino orc walked over to the captive elf. He lifted the prisoner’s face and peered into it, grasping the head as easily as if it were a grapefruit. Then he released it with a disinterested grunt.

  The elf was silent now, as if resigned to his fate. The crowd watched with baited breath as the white orc was handed the piece of skin, now stretched out on a palette of wood. As he lifted it to the light, a pentacle could be seen tattooed on to the white orc’s hand, the black ink contrasting starkly with his pale skin. His fingers were tattooed as well, the tip of each fingerpad embossed with a different symbol.

  The imp was lowered to the ground by his master, who stepped away and bowed low once again. The albino orc extended his hand, pointing his tattooed palm up at the sky. Then, with a deep and booming voice, the orc began to read from the skin.

  ‘Di rah go mai lo fa lo go rah lo . . .’

  The pentacle on the orc’s palm began to glow a searing bright violet. Threads of white light materialised, a twisting umbilical cord between the shaman and the Salamander. The invisible bond that held the two together unravelled, then snapped with an audible crack.

  ‘Fai lo so nei di roh . . .’

  But those were the last words the white orc spoke.

  An elven arrow whistled through the air and speared his throat, spurting hot blood across the platform. More arrows thudded into the ranks; long, heavy shafts that were fletched with swan feathers. The orc shaman roared, but without his demon he was powerless. Instead, he rushed to the side of the fallen albino orc, trying to stem the blood that gushed from his neck.

  Another hail of arrows fell, sending the orcs into disarray, milling about aimlessly as they brandished war clubs and bundles of javelins. Then, with a brassy knell, trumpets sounded from the forest and a great crowd came charging from the trees, screaming their battle cries. But these were not elves that came stampeding out of the darkness . . . they were men.

  Men wearing heavy plate armour, armed with broadswords and shields, fearlessly plunging into the heart of the camp. They gave no quarter, hacking and stabbing at the orcs in a whirlwind of steel. The encampment was transformed into a charnel house, the ground thickly coated with entrails, bodies and blood. Behind them, hail upon hail of arrows flew overhead, peppering the orcs with deadly accuracy.

  The orcs were no cowards. They waded into their assailants, crushing helmets and breastplates with blows from their clubs as if they were made of tinfoil. It was a desperate, vicious melee. There was no skill or tactics here – death was decided by luck, strength and numbers.

  Orcs roared their defiance as the men’s blades rose and fell. Each flailing smash from their clubs sent men flying, shattering their bones to leave them crippled where they fell. The orcs fought on through the storm of arrows, snapping the shafts from their bodies and hurling them defiantly into the faces of the enemy.

  The abino orc’s bodyguard carved a wide path of destruction, sending scores of opponents to their deaths. Their strength was unmatched as they ducked and weaved in the firelight, using their studded warclubs to lethal effect. They rallied other orcs behind them, bellowing orders as they took the fight to the enemy. Somehow, the orcs were now winning.

  But then something stirred in the jungle, a dark mass that had been waiting just out of sight. What at first had appeared to be tree branches became antlers, tossing and jostling as they charged into the clearing. It was the elves, sitting astride giant elks, full-chested beasts with strong legs and sharpened antlers. They wore no armour, but wielded the bows that had blackened the sky with arrows not so long ago. The foremost elf held a great pennant that streamed behind them, made from green cloth with gold stitching. The broken arrow it depicted rippled as the elks stampeded over the shattered bodies on the ground.

  They hit the orcs like a battering ram, the antlers impaling the front ranks and hurling them overhead. Arrows whistled into skulls and eye sockets as the elves fired nimbly from the backs of their steeds. The men cheered and followed behind, stabbing the fallen orcs who had been trampled under the charge.

  The tide had begun to turn again, but it was far from over. The orcs surrounded the platform, a last knot of resistance that would not surrender. They hurled their javelins into the foray, great shafts of wood with sharpened ends that cut down elk and elf alike.

  The men put up their shields, one row kneeling and the other standing to provide an interlocking wall that was two rows high. The elves sent their elk back into the trees and fired their arrows from behind the wall, arcing them over the top to fall on their enemy with practised ease. It was a deadly war of attrition as the missiles on both sides took their toll. But there could only be one outcome.

  It took dozens of arrows to take down each orc, but die they did. They fell, one by one, twitching and bleeding in the dirt. At last, the albino orc’s bodyguard made a final, desperate bid, charging at the enemy. They barely managed ten steps.

  On the platform, the orc shaman pawed at his lost Salamander, desperate for the mana that might give him a chance to live. Realising it was useless, he drew a knife and crawled towards their captive elf, perhaps hoping to gain a hostage.

  As he lifted the knife to the elf’s throat, the bows were raised once again. The arrows whistled for the last time.

  Fletcher woke with a start, his body soaked with cold sweat.

  ‘What the hell was that?’

  41

  What Fletcher had just seen . . . it wasn’t a dream, of that he was certain. He had smelled the blood, heard the screams. The images were Ignatius’s memories, one of the infusion flashbacks that Lovett had warned him about.

  ‘I’m kind of jealous,’ Fletcher murmured to Ignatius. ‘I had almost forgotten you once belonged to an orc.’

  The little demon gave a soft growl and burrowed deeper into the blankets. It was freezing in the room – Fletcher had yet to find anything adequate to stuff into the arrow slit in his wall.

  With a flash of revulsion, Fletcher realised that the summoning scroll he had left with Dame Fairhaven had been made from the elf in the memory. Somehow, seeing the actual victim made the relic twice as disturbing.

  He contemplated the scene he had just
witnessed. What had elves been doing in orc territory? Was the albino orc he had seen the same one that led the tribes now? It couldn’t be. James Baker had written that the scroll was buried amongst bones from long ago. The battle must have happened hundreds of years in the past, perhaps in the Second Orc War; there had been no muskets then after all. But that did not explain what the elves were doing there, nor the albino orc.

  ‘You’re probably hundreds of years older than me, that’s all I know,’ Fletcher murmured, warming his hands on Ignatius’s belly.

  He lay back down on the bed, but sleep would not come to him. He kept turning over the facts in his mind, again and again. Were there any clues? There had been no demons present other than Ignatius . . . did that mean anything? Surely an army of men would have had battlemages, especially for a battle as crucial as that one.

  Then it hit him. The banner that the elves had used: the broken arrow! Surely that would reveal which clan the elves had belonged to. Sylva would know who they were; she knew more about the history of their peoples than anyone.

  Fletcher’s heart fell as he remembered their argument. Perhaps he had been too hard on her. It was easy to forget the position she was in and the responsibilities she had to her people. Hell, if her friendship meant an end to the war on the elven front, what did it matter if she was being friendly to the Forsyths? At the very least, it would throw a spanner in Didric’s works. There would be no need to send all the prisoners north for training if the elven front didn’t exist any more.

  He rolled from his bed and got dressed. Wrapping the still-sleeping Ignatius around his neck like a scarf, Fletcher padded quietly to the girls’ quarters.

  ‘This time, I’m definitely going to knock,’ Fletcher murmured to himself, not wanting another encounter with Sariel.

  Sylva answered the door immediately. Her room was almost identical to Fletcher’s, though twice as large and furnished with an additional chest at the foot of her bed. Sariel was curled up on a sheepskin rug in the centre of the room, watching Fletcher warily. Sylva matched her demon’s expression and Fletcher noticed she was still dressed in her uniform. She must have only just got back from her meeting with the Forsyths. He swallowed his annoyance at that realisation and spoke to her levelly.

  ‘Can I come in?’

  ‘Of course. But if you’re here to change my mind you might as well go back to bed. Tarquin and Isadora were willing to put aside our differences, and I hope you are willing to do the same with me!’

  ‘I’m not here about that,’ Fletcher said, ignoring his desire to contradict her. ‘I had a flashback, like Lovett warned us about. I need to ask you about when the elves and humans last fought together.’

  Sylva listened in rapt attention as Fletcher told her about his dream. He tried to recount it in as much detail as possible, hoping that he might remember some other clue.

  ‘Fletcher . . . are you sure you weren’t dreaming?’ Sylva asked when he finished. ‘It’s only . . . what you told me is impossible.’

  ‘Why is that?’ Fletcher asked. ‘I’m telling you, it was all real!’

  ‘If what you say is true . . . Ignatius is more than two thousand years old!’ Sylva breathed. She rushed over to the trunk at the end of her bed and rummaged through it.

  ‘I know it’s here somewhere,’ she muttered, piling dusty books next to her on the stone floor.

  ‘Here!’ she announced, heaving a heavy tome on to the bed.

  Fletcher sat next to her and she flicked through it, before settling on an illustrated page in the middle. The scene it depicted made him feel dizzy: elves riding elks, charging into a horde of orcs. The broken arrow pennant streamed behind them. Men on foot assaulted from the other side, wearing the exact same armour as in Fletcher’s vision. Even the albino orc’s bodyguard was featured, the red and yellow war paint unmistakeable.

  ‘Do you remember what I told you that night in the cornfields? About how the elves taught the first King of Hominum how to summon in exchange for an alliance against the orcs? This was the final battle they fought, the Battle of Corcillum, so called because of its proximity to the dwarven city. Your demon’s namesake, Ignatius, would have led the charge in that battle. Apparently it didn’t happen too far from here, but the site of the battle has been lost in time. The fact that you got to see it . . . it’s incredible!’ She stroked the page, tracing the outline of an elk’s antlers.

  ‘But I don’t understand. Why was there an albino orc . . . and why was Ignatius the only demon there?’

  ‘Only the elven clan chiefs were summoners, and the whole reason they made their deal with your first King was so they didn’t have to risk themselves in battle. The elves weren’t supposed to do any fighting after the agreement, but the Battle of Corcillum was fought because a clan chief’s son was kidnapped, so the elves sent their own soldiers in to help. They hadn’t taught King Corwin the art of summoning yet either, as the conditions of the agreement clearly stated that the orcs had to be utterly defeated first. As for the albino orc, I have no idea. All I know is that after the Battle of Corcillum, the orcs fell back to the jungles. It was the decisive victory that heralded an age of peace, lasting until the Second Orc War, three hundred years ago.’

  Fletcher was glad he had come to Sylva. She seemed to have learned everything about human and elf relations in her preparation for coming to Vocans.

  ‘I think we need to go to the library and research if there have ever been any reports of another albino orc,’ Fletcher said. ‘It seems as if after the last one was killed, the orcs fell into disarray. Maybe the white orcs aren’t just their leaders; there could be something more to it!’ Fletcher said.

  ‘You’re right. Ignatius was about to be gifted to him and it seemed to be an important ceremony. We need to research what we can about the orcs and their past leaders, maybe we can turn something up.’ Sylva stood and strode to the door.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Fletcher asked as Sariel bounded after her, nearly knocking him to the ground.

  ‘To the library, of course. I said, as soon as possible!’

  Fletcher had no choice but to follow her.

  It was dank and cold in Vocans at night, but their wyrdlights lit the way well enough. The use of spells no longer gave Fletcher the joy it had before, for he was still dwelling on his performance in Arcturus’s lessons.

  He tried to stay positive and concentrate on the task at hand. At least he had the chance to redeem himself by providing useful information about the orcs.

  If only they had access to the summoner’s book. Fletcher would have loved to be able to read more about the site where Ignatius’s scroll had been found.

  As they descended the spiral staircase, Fletcher saw the glow of another wyrdlight behind them.

  ‘Hide! It might be Rook!’ he hissed.

  They snuffed out their own lights and ducked into one of the upper corridors. Holding their breaths, they pressed themselves into a doorway. Sariel whined at the sudden darkness but was silenced with a tap on the muzzle from Sylva.

  Hasty footsteps soon followed, accompanied by heavy breathing. Whoever it was, they were in a hurry. After what seemed an age, the steps faded, and they were shrouded in darkness once again.

  ‘Come on, let’s go,’ Fletcher muttered when he was sure they were out of earshot.

  ‘Who would be wandering the corridors at this time?’ Sylva asked.

  ‘I think I have some idea,’ Fletcher said, leading the way down the stairs again, careful not to trip in the dark.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Sylva asked.

  ‘The first night I was here, I saw someone leaving our common room and eventually the castle. It looked like they were in a hurry and didn’t want to be seen,’ Fletcher replied, turning into the corridor that lead to the library.

  ‘That’s so suspicious, Fletcher. Why haven’t
you told anyone?’ Sylva asked, disapproval clear in her voice.

  ‘Because I didn’t think anything of it. It could have just been someone going for some fresh air. That’s why I was out that night. Now it’s happened again though . . . maybe I should have said something.’

  Fletcher pushed at the door to the library. It shook on its hinges, but remained firmly closed.

  ‘Well, it looks like we’ve just wasted a trip downstairs. Dame Fairhaven must have locked it when the last student left for bed . . . which we should do too,’ he said, kicking the door in frustration. ‘The library can wait until after Rook’s lesson.’

  ‘I’m not going to bed! There’s somebody sneaking about the school at night. I’m going to find out who it is. If I can bring a traitor to justice, everyone will know that the elves are trustworthy.’

  With that, she strode back down the corridor and bounded down the spiral staircase.

  ‘Sylva, it’s not safe for you out there! Those men who attacked you in Corcillum could be watching the castle!’

  But it was too late. Sylva was gone.

  Fletcher cursed as he tripped in the darkness.

  ‘Sylva!’ he hissed, trying to be loud and quiet at the same time. He had been following her trail for the past hour, though the thin sliver of moon in the night sky gave him barely enough light to see her trail. There was a flattened patch of grass here, a broken twig there. At one point he thought he had lost her, but the ground had been softened by a recent rain, allowing him to feel the soft indent of footprints that slowly filled with water. If he had not been a practised hunter, he would have lost her.

  He could have kicked himself for not following her immediately after she had left. Instead, he had chosen to run back upstairs and get his khopesh, in case they ran into any trouble. Who would have thought she would move so fast?

  Now he had reached the edge of a small forest, tall trees growing in some craggy hills half a mile from Vocans.

  ‘Sylva, I’m going to kill you!’