Summoner: Book 1: The Novice

by Taran Matharu

  ‘Not likely,’ whispered a voice from behind him.

  Fletcher felt cold steel press into his back and froze.

  ‘I’m perfectly aware of the dangers I face because of what I am. But I refuse to live in fear, or change my behaviour to accommodate my enemies.’

  Sylva stepped in front of him and flashed a long stiletto blade, not dissimilar to the one he had made in Uhtred’s forge.

  ‘I came prepared, of course,’ she said, smiling. ‘But Sariel is worth a bodyguard of ten men and two trackers to boot.’

  As Fletcher’s pride stung from being caught unawares, Sariel wandered into view from behind a crop of rocks ahead, snuffling at the ground.

  ‘Sylva, let’s go back. This is none of our business! It could be Genevieve visiting her family, we know she lives near here,’ Fletcher reasoned, eager to get back to Vocans. It was freezing out there, even with his jacket on.

  ‘Not when we are so close,’ Sylva replied stubbornly. ‘They’re just ahead of us; come on!’

  She jogged away before Fletcher could stop her. Groaning with exasperation, he followed.

  The wyrdlight came into view almost immediately. It floated above a small rocky cliff, which Sylva crawled up before poking her head out to see. Her eyes widened and she motioned for Fletcher to join her.

  He looked apprehensively at the muddy ground. What could Sylva possibly be seeing below that had got her in such a state? Curiosity got the better of him and he lay flat in the dirt, before sliding himself up the incline to lie beside Sylva. The front of his uniform and jacket were soon soaked with cold mud, but it was nothing compared to the cold that trickled down his spine when he saw what was below.

  Othello and Solomon stood in front of a cave. There were two mounted dwarves guarding it, sitting astride boars, the chosen steeds of the dwarven people. The boars had coarse, rust-coloured fur, with heavy tusks that jutted dangerously from their snouts. They were nothing like the wild pigs that Fletcher had hunted in Pelt; these were muscled chargers, with red, baleful eyes that seemed full of rage and malice.

  The dwarves themselves were armoured, with horned helms on their heads and two-handed battle-axes clenched in their fists. A bandolier of hurlbat throwing-axes hung from their saddles, deadly projectiles with an additional blade in the top of the axe and a sharpened handle.

  And then they heard a clear, booming voice announce, ‘Othello Thorsager, reporting for the war council. They are expecting me.’

  42

  The mounted dwarves followed Othello into the cave, the clomp of the boars’ hooves echoing beneath them until the sound faded underground.

  ‘They must have been waiting for him. Still think it’s none of our business?’ Sylva whispered.

  ‘Well, it isn’t. This war council could be about anything. They have just joined the military after all.’ Fletcher’s voice was low and sullen. He was disappointed in Othello. The dwarf knew all of his secrets, down to the last detail. How could his best friend keep this from him?

  ‘The dwarves could be plotting a rebellion,’ Sylva argued back. ‘Think about it. Old King Alfric created the harshest laws against the dwarves there have ever been, even if his son Harold has started to repeal them. They have revolted against Hominum for less in the past, not to mention the fact that they now have a monopoly on musket production.’

  ‘I can’t believe that. Othello is so set on peace between our races; he would never jeopardise that!’ Fletcher hissed, furious at the suggestion.

  ‘Are you willing to risk a civil war on that?’ Sylva asked. Fletcher paused, then thumped his fist into the wet earth.

  ‘Fine. But there’s no way we can follow him. He’s under armed guard. Warning the Pinkertons isn’t a good idea, they would burst in and start the civil war tonight,’ Fletcher pondered, exploring the options. ‘What would you suggest?’

  ‘We’re summoners, Fletcher. Let’s send Ignatius in to sneak past the guards and scry what’s happening. You’ll have to tell me what they are saying. I won’t be able to hear it.’

  ‘Why not send Sariel?’ Fletcher argued.

  ‘Because Sariel will barely fit in that cave, let alone be able to get by the guards. Besides, we need someone to protect us out here.’ Sylva sounded exasperated.

  ‘You’re doing this so you can find out if there is a plot and use that information to curry favour with the King,’ Fletcher accused.

  ‘It’s not the only reason, Fletcher. If a civil war were to break out in the middle of our current war against the orcs . . . who knows how the cards would fall then. You and I both know that we need to see what’s happening at that war council. Now stop wasting time, and use my scrying stone on Ignatius. If we used your tiny one we would barely be able to see a thing.’

  Sylva removed a shard of crystal from the pocket of her uniform. It was oval shaped and at least four times larger than the coin-sized scrying stone that Fletcher had been given.

  ‘Hurry, we’ve probably already missed the start of their meeting,’ she urged.

  Fletcher tapped the scrying stone against Ignatius’s head, waking the little imp from slumber.

  ‘Come on, buddy. Time to put all that practice to use. At least some good will come of Rook not allowing us to do anything but scry.’

  Ignatius yawned in complaint but immediately woke up when he sensed Fletcher’s mood. The demon leaped from his shoulder and ran to the edge of the cliff. Digging his claws into the earth, Ignatius crawled vertically down the lip of the cave mouth. Then, as if it was the easiest thing in the world, he scampered upside down along the roof of the cave and ventured deep into the earth.

  ‘Wow. I didn’t know Ignatius could do that,’ Sylva whispered, flipping the scrying stone in Fletcher’s hands so that the inverted image made more sense.

  ‘Me neither. Ignatius still manages to surprise me,’ Fletcher replied, his chest swelling with pride.

  Controlling Ignatius was easy. Their mental connection had been honed by the many hours of practice in Rook’s lessons and it required barely a thought to adjust the roving demon’s path this way and that. The cave was dark, but Ignatius’s night vision was far better than a human’s. It was possible to make out the long, winding passage easily enough.

  In just a few minutes, the tunnel widened and the flickering glow of torches could be seen ahead. Fletcher urged Ignatius to slow down, for he could hear the click of the demon’s claws through their connection. It would be best not to give the guards a reason to look up.

  The two mounted dwarves who escorted Othello were waiting by the torches with over two dozen others. They stood in a row, watching the tunnel ahead like hawks. Fortunately for Ignatius, their torchlight did not extend as far as the cavern’s ceiling. He crawled on in the gloom, unnoticed by the vigilant guards.

  The tunnel’s roof became higher and higher. Now Ignatius was almost eighty feet above the floor. One misstep and he could fall to his death, but the demon clambered onwards, making his way through the stalactites that hung from the ceiling like icicles. Finally, the tunnel opened up into a dome-shaped cavern, lit by hundreds of torches.

  The cave was the central nexus of a network of similar tunnels, like the hub and spokes of a wheel. The glimmer of torchlight at the end of each entrance indicated that they too were guarded by mounted dwarves.

  ‘Whatever this meeting is about, they aren’t leaving anything to chance, are they?’ Sylva whispered.

  Fletcher hushed her, for Ignatius had looked below him. Dozens of dwarves were gathered there, seated on benches made of roughly hewn stone. In the middle, there was a raised stone platform, upon which a dwarf stood. Fletcher could barely make out his booming voice.

  ‘We need to get closer. I can’t hear what he’s saying,’ Fletcher murmured, directing Ignatius to look around the cavern. The walls were illuminated by the
torches flickering light, there was no way the demon could climb down them without being seen.

  ‘Get him to climb down that,’ Sylva suggested, pointing at a large stalactite that extended a third of the way to the base of the cavern.

  Fletcher ordered Ignatius down the pointed stone, urging him to be careful. Then he closed his eyes and began to whisper the words he heard.

  ‘. . . I say again to you, the time is ripe for rebellion! We have not been in a better position for two thousand years. Hominum’s army is caught between two wars, the elves to the north and the orcs to the south. They cannot fight a third. From a tactical point of view, we are well placed to storm the palace and hold the King and his father hostage.’

  The speaker was a large, heavyset dwarf with a commanding presence. He stared down his nose at the seated dwarves, then descended the platform steps. Another dwarf waited below, this one older, with grey streaks in his beard. He shook the younger dwarf’s hand and then took his place on the rostrum.

  ‘Thank you, Ulfr, for those rousing words. You speak the truth, but there is more to it than that. As you all know, we dwarves are the only manufacturers of firearms. At this moment, nine out of every ten men in Hominum’s army are only trained in the art of loading and firing a musket, with no armour, nor anything more than a bayonet for close-quarters combat. If we were to cut off their weapons supply, they would become nothing more than a poorly equipped, untrained militia. Another key advantage that cannot be overlooked . . .’

  His words drew cheers from some of the dwarves and soon they began chanting his name. ‘Hakon! Hakon!’

  But many dwarves remained silent, staring up at him with their arms crossed. Clearly, the crowd was divided.

  ‘Another advantage, perhaps our greatest of all, is ammunition. The Pasha mines are controlled by our allies and worked by dwarven miners. It is dwarves who manufacture the gunpowder and the lead bullets. Without these two resources, the muskets that Hominum already have will be useless. Once they run out of their ammunition stockpiles . . . we will win this war!’

  More cheers followed, but this time there were boos as well. A dwarf leaped from his seat and rushed on to the stage. He shook Hakon’s hand and whispered in his ear.

  ‘It’s Othello!’ Sylva gasped.

  Fletcher shook his head.

  ‘No, it’s not, I can tell from the way his hair has been braided. Othello has a twin, remember? His name is Atilla and he hates humanity with a passion.’

  ‘Traitors and cowards!’ Atilla bellowed as Fletcher tuned in again. ‘Are you true dwarves . . . or half-men?’

  Several dwarves leaped up in anger, shouting so loudly that Fletcher could almost hear the echoes from the cave below where he and Sylva sat.

  ‘Have you not felt the batons of the Pinkertons? How many of you have had your hard earned money extorted from you? Who here has not had a son or brother thrown in jail by a dwarf-hating judge? Do you like having to go crawling to the King if you want more than one child?’

  The yelling almost doubled in volume as dwarves leaped to their feet and bellowed in anger.

  Suddenly, a guttural roar thundered through the cave, silencing the noise.

  ‘Enough!’ a familiar voice shouted. Othello pushed his way through the crowd and mounted the stairs two at a time. Solomon, the source of the roar, followed him.

  ‘I am Othello Thorsager, first dwarven officer in Hominum and the first summoner of our kind. I claim the right to speak.’

  ‘Get on with it then, human lover,’ Atilla shouted.

  ‘We cannot go to war with Hominum,’ Othello said in a loud, clear voice. ‘King Harold is giving us a chance for equality, don’t you see? If we go to war we will lose, without a shadow of a doubt. Hominum’s army alone outnumbers the dwarven population by ten to one. Most dwarves of fighting age are on their way to be trained on the elven front, surrounded by veteran soldiers and as far from Corcillum as is possible. Do you think you can storm the palace with the hundred or so dwarven men left?’

  ‘If we must!’ shouted Hakon, spurring on shouts of agreement from his supporters.

  ‘What happens then? The news of our assault will reach the generals in the north in a matter of days, carried by flying demons. The northern generals will slaughter our young warriors without hesitation. Even if we planned it with them, what then? Will a thousand untrained dwarves try and take over the entire northern front? Even without muskets, the battlemages would tear our warriors apart in minutes. The King himself is one of the most powerful summoners to have ever walked the earth, yet you presume to take him hostage! We wouldn’t stand a chance.’

  ‘So what? I’d rather die fighting against them than alongside them. I bet they think you’re a joke, wandering around with that little demon of yours,’ Atilla said.

  ‘That is what I thought too, when I first arrived at Vocans. But I was wrong. There are good people there. Hell, the first day I arrived one of them showed me an Anvil card,’ Othello replied.

  ‘The Anvils? They are just humans who pity us, nothing more. It is but a hobby to them. The elders didn’t trust them enough to even bring them to this meeting,’ Atilla retorted.

  ‘Neither would I, not if we are going to discuss open war against their people. We are slowly gaining allies; first the Pashas and now the Anvils are starting a movement in our support. Even the King has said he is willing to revisit the laws and rein in the Pinkertons, once we prove that we can be trusted. But what do we do? We do the very thing that would prevent him from ever supporting us – discuss rebellion.’ Othello spat on Atilla’s boots in fury.

  ‘You are no true dwarf! You don’t deserve the dwarven sigil that is stamped upon your back. I am ashamed to call you brother!’ Atilla shouted.

  He tore Othello’s shirt away, to reveal the tattoo on his back. With a roar, Othello grabbed Atilla by the throat and they spun around the stage, throttling one another. Solomon moved to help, but then stopped, as if Othello had commanded him to freeze.

  Uhtred burst on to the platform, ripping the brawling twins apart. Behind him, a procession of white-haired dwarves mounted the stage. They were old and venerable, with long, chalky beards that were tucked into their belts.

  ‘They must be the Dwarven Council,’ Sylva breathed in Fletcher’s ear. Fletcher nodded and urged Ignatius to listen closely, for these dwarves did not seem like the type to shout and scream.

  The room was in a deep, respectful silence. Even Atilla had calmed himself, bowing his head in reverence. The oldest of the elders stepped forward and opened his arms wide.

  ‘Do we not all want freedom for our children? If we cannot stand united in the face of adversity, then we have already lost.’

  The dwarves began to seat themselves, many looking at their feet in shame.

  ‘We have heard all we need to hear. There are many hot heads here tonight, but the decision we are about to make will not be taken lightly. I ask you this . . . what good will it do, to die bravely in pursuit of freedom? Fourteen times the dwarves have rebelled, and fourteen times we have been brought to the brink of extinction. You young dwarves do not remember the slaughter we faced in the last uprising. Every time we lose, more freedoms are taken from us, more dwarven blood is shed.’

  There were nods of agreement from the crowd.

  ‘I see two paths before us. One is well trodden, yet every time we have taken it, we end up back where we started: defeated and bloodied. But there is a second path. I do not know where it leads, or what dangers there are along the way, but I know in my heart that it is better to take the path of uncertain fate, than the one of glorious, yet certain defeat. There will be no war, my friends. We will honour our agreement with the King.’

  Fletcher was flooded with relief. Othello had snuck out to argue against rebellion, not support it. Not only that, but he had managed to win over t
he elders. He did not want to think what Othello would have done if the decision had gone the other way, but it was not worth thinking about. Everything was going to be OK.

  ‘Fletcher, what was that?’ Sylva gasped, jerking Fletcher’s arm.

  There were torches ahead of them, moving through the trees at speed. They ducked behind the cliff and watched, their hearts in their mouths.

  There were ten men, each one armed with a musket and a sword. Their leader was wheezing with effort; even in the darkness, Fletcher could tell that he was an abnormally fat man.

  ‘Are you certain this is the right cave?’ one of the men asked, holding his torch high to illuminate the area. Fletcher was hit by a wash of cold as the light revealed their faces.

  ‘I’m dead certain,’ Grindle said.

  43

  ‘Those are the men that kidnapped me,’ Sylva hissed, pointing at the armoured soldiers below.

  ‘I know. I would recognise the fat bald one anywhere,’ Fletcher replied, gripping the hilt of his khopesh. ‘His name is Grindle – he’s the one who was going to perform the execution. I thought you killed him. Guess he must have a thick skull.’

  ‘There’re too many of them,’ Sylva muttered, but Fletcher could see her tensing, as if she were preparing to jump into the fray. Behind them, Fletcher could hear a low growl as Sariel sensed the elf’s agitation.

  ‘Try to stay calm. We need to find out why they’re here,’ Fletcher forced his own anger away and leaned over the shadowed parapet to listen.

  ‘I don’t understand why we don’t just wait out here and ambush them when they come out,’ one of the men was complaining.

  ‘Because this is just one of five exits,’ Grindle replied, sitting down on a boulder. ‘Not to mention that three of them lead back to the tunnels under the Dwarven Quarter.’

  As the other men gathered around, the light from their torches showed Grindle’s bandaged shoulder, still injured from Ignatius’s fireball.

  ‘I should have made sure he was dead,’ Sylva whispered through gritted teeth. Fletcher laid a calming hand on her shoulder. If it came down to a fight, he didn’t feel confident about their chances.