Summoner: Book 1: The Novice

by Taran Matharu

  Lovett lay motionless on the nearest bed. She was so still that she might have been a corpse, were it not for the almost imperceptible rise and fall of her chest. She was dressed in a nightgown, with her long black hair falling about her head like a halo. The others had lit the torches and candles on either side of her bed, which cast the room in a dull, orange light.

  ‘Valens led you here too?’ Fletcher asked, as the Mite landed on Lovett’s chest.

  ‘He found us about an hour ago, then flew straight out of the window as soon as we got to this room,’ Sylva said, wiping a tear from her eye. ‘He must have sensed you were in trouble.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s just Valens we need to thank,’ Fletcher said, stroking the beetle demon’s carapace.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Sylva asked.

  ‘Arcturus told me that some summoners can learn how to see and hear through their demon, effectively using their own mind as a scrying stone. I doubt a Mite could have done what Valens did tonight without someone guiding him. Were you with him, Captain Lovett?’ Fletcher looked at her immobile face.

  The demon buzzed and spun in a circle.

  ‘Not possible!’ Sylva gasped.

  ‘How did she know?’ Fletcher asked, his eyes widening in wonder.

  ‘She must have been watching out for us. Probably since Rook showed up,’ Sylva said, smoothing Lovett’s hair out on the pillow. ‘We’re lucky. We could be dead if it wasn’t for her.’

  ‘If you’re all done being amazed, I need help over here,’ Othello said in a cracked voice. Fletcher’s eyes widened when he saw Atilla’s leg.

  Othello had cut through the cloth around it to reveal a jagged hole that streamed with blood. Fletcher had never seen a bullet wound before, and the damage looked far worse than the tiny puncture he had imagined.

  ‘We are lucky, the bullet didn’t hit any major arteries. The bone is definitely broken though, so we can’t attempt a healing spell. Last time I saw a wound like this, a Pinkerton had shot a young dwarf for not paying them protection,’ Othello said, cutting a long strip from the bed sheet using Atilla’s tomahawk. ‘The best we can do is dress the wound to stop the bleeding. Lift his leg for me.’

  They helped Othello wrap the wound, until Atilla’s leg was swathed in a thick band of white bandage. Tenderly, Othello wiped the crusted blood away.

  ‘I know Atilla seems as racist to humans as many humans are to the dwarves, but he has a good heart. He just has a hot head to match,’ Othello murmured, propping a pillow under the sleeping dwarf’s head.

  They stood in silence whilst Othello dabbed at his brother’s forehead.

  ‘I think we need to discuss what happened tonight,’ Sylva spoke up.

  ‘I agree,’ Fletcher said. ‘But we need to get Seraph first. He deserves to know what kind of danger his family might be in.’

  ‘I’ll go,’ Othello said. ‘I need to get a spare uniform from my room anyway. We will need it if we are to sneak Atilla out tomorrow.’

  He stomped away, followed by a dejected looking Solomon. Fletcher knew that Othello was probably holding the whole world on his shoulders at that moment.

  He sat on the side of Lovett’s bed, groaning with satisfaction as he relieved his tired feet. He stroked Sariel’s head absentmindedly and she responded with a rumble of appreciation. Grinning, he scratched her beneath the chin the way Ignatius liked. She rubbed back and yipped with pleasure.

  ‘Um, Fletcher,’ Sylva stuttered.

  Fletcher looked up and saw that she was blushing, her face and neck flushing with scarlet.

  ‘Sorry . . . didn’t think,’ he blurted, pulling his hand away.

  She stood for a moment, then sighed and sat down on the bed next to him.

  ‘I never thanked you,’ she muttered, twisting her hands together.

  ‘For what?’ Fletcher asked, confused.

  ‘For following me. If you hadn’t . . . Grindle might have caught me again.’

  ‘I don’t know; I think Grindle might have been in for a bit of a surprise. You said Sariel was worth ten men, that makes it an even fight. If it hadn’t been for you, we could be in the middle of a civil war right now. You made the right call.’

  Valens buzzed excitedly and nudged Fletcher’s hand.

  ‘I think Captain Lovett wants to know what’s going on. Tell her what happened in Valentius Square and I’ll let her know what went down tonight.’

  The story took some telling; Othello and Seraph arrived by the time they had finished it. Seraph was still in his pyjamas and squinted in the light.

  ‘Othello filled me in on the way,’ Seraph said, staring at Atilla and Lovett’s unconscious bodies. ‘I just have one question. Why would the Forsyths hire Grindle to kill you that night in Corcillum, but also want to be your friend?’

  Sylva stood and chewed on her lip.

  ‘I always thought they wanted my friendship so that they could supply the elves with weapons should an alliance be on the cards,’ she said, pacing around the room. ‘But what makes me their enemy? Why would they want me dead?’

  ‘I think the real question is, why would they want you executed publicly,’ Othello said matter of factly. ‘They could have killed you at any time. Why make such a statement?’

  ‘To incite a war between the elves and Hominum,’ Seraph suggested. ‘A real one. That would increase the demand for weapons and keep their business afloat, even with the dwarves competing with them.’

  Fletcher felt a wave of disgust. Starting a war, for profit?

  ‘So they want the best of both worlds . . .’ he muttered. ‘If the elves ally with Hominum, the Forsyths plan to secure a weapons contract through their fake friendship with Sylva. But they would prefer a war because it would make them more money. They didn’t abandon you at the market, Sylva, they led you right into Grindle’s arms!’

  ‘Don’t say I told you so . . .’ Sylva stared at her feet.

  The room went silent, only broken by Valens’s angry buzzing as he flitted to and fro.

  ‘Those evil little prigs!’ Seraph growled. ‘I knew they were up to something but this . . . this is treason!’

  ‘We can’t prove anything!’ Fletcher cursed, clenching his fists together. ‘In fact, if we tell the King the whole story, he is more likely to think it was the dwarves committing treason, what with the war council and all.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ Sylva announced. ‘Their plan is ruined now. I will write to my father tonight and tell him that the Forsyths are not to be trusted. The plot to start a civil war with the dwarves has been foiled and I am relatively safe at Vocans. There is nothing they can do to harm us now.’

  ‘Yes, there is,’ Seraph cautioned. ‘The tournament. If one of the Forsyths wins, they will become high-ranking officers and gain a seat on the King’s council. That’s an extra vote for Zacharias and another voice speaking out against my family, not to mention the elves and the dwarves.’

  Othello nodded, then scratched his beard contemplatively. ‘Let’s not forget that the most powerful people in Hominum will be watching it; the nobles and the generals,’ he said, pacing back and forth. ‘They will be deciding if the elves and the dwarves are worthy allies, then reporting back to the King. We can be sure the Forsyths will be doing everything they can to discredit and embarrass us during the tournament too.’

  ‘Then we beat them!’ Fletcher jumped to his feet. ‘Who says we can’t win the tournament ourselves? We have a Golem, a Barkling, a Canid and a Salamander!’

  Seraph shook his head.

  ‘We aren’t as powerful as them. Even the second year commoners will have an advantage over us. How are we supposed to win?’

  Fletcher took a deep breath and looked him right in the eye.

  ‘We train.’

  45

  A he
avy mist hung around the castle, fading the horizon into a shadowed whiteness. It gave Fletcher and Atilla the cover they needed as they hobbled down the road outside.

  ‘I hope Uhtred makes it in time,’ Fletcher said. ‘Rook will be suspicious if I don’t turn up for his lesson.’

  ‘He’ll be here. You said Valens delivered the pick-up instructions just fine,’ Atilla replied. He was ashen faced, but had recovered enough to walk, even if with a pronounced limp.

  They had managed to sneak out of the castle with barely any trouble. Tarquin had made a snide comment as they passed on the stairs, asking if the dwarf was limping because someone had stepped on him that morning. Fortunately, with Othello’s spare uniform and some quick braiding of Atilla’s beard, the twin dwarves were indistinguishable.

  Fletcher’s heart leaped in his chest as a shadow darkened the mist in front of them.

  ‘It’s OK. That’s my father,’ Atilla grunted.

  A boar emerged from the fog, pulling a chariot behind it. The rider wore a hood, but Uhtred’s bulky figure was unmistakeable.

  ‘Get on, quickly. It is not safe out here,’ Uhtred said, pulling the chariot to a halt beside them. Fletcher helped Atilla sprawl at his father’s feet.

  ‘The dwarves are in your debt. If you need anything, anything at all, just ask,’ Uhtred rumbled, flicking the boar’s reins and turning them around.

  ‘Wait! I have something to say,’ Atilla announced.

  Fletcher turned back, wary of being late for Rook’s lesson that would be starting any minute.

  ‘Thank you. I owe you my life. Tell Othello . . . I was wrong.’

  With those parting words, they disappeared into the mist, until all Fletcher could hear was the echoing clop of the boar’s hooves.

  Fletcher was late. When he arrived in the summoning room, both Rook and Arcturus were there waiting for him, with the rest of the students standing in silence before them. Fletcher noticed that Arcturus was wearing an eye patch. Fletcher couldn’t help but smile. With his tricorn hat, Arcturus looked like a pirate captain.

  ‘Wipe that grin from your face, boy. Do you think your time is more valuable than our own?’ Rook snapped, waving him over to the other noviciates.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ Fletcher said, standing with the others.

  ‘I will deal with him later, Rook,’ Arcturus said. ‘But perhaps we should get on with the lesson.’

  ‘Yes, perhaps we should,’ Rook said dryly, stepping forward. ‘With the tournament coming up, we think it is time to demonstrate how a duel works. Now, Arcturus here believes that learning to duel another battlemage is a useless practice—’

  ‘The orc shamans rarely duel,’ Arcturus cut Rook off. ‘It is unlikely that you will ever go toe-to-toe with one. They prefer to hide in the shadows and send their demons to do the fighting for them.’

  ‘A strategy that has served them well in the past. I suspect our battlemage attrition rate is several times what theirs is, but the fact that we fight on the front lines and put ourselves in harm’s way is why we are winning this war,’ Rook countered.

  ‘But that is not duelling, Inquisitor. That is using our abilities to protect and support the soldiers,’ Arcturus retorted.

  ‘Yet we use the same skills, do we not?’ Rook mused, rubbing his chin in mock pensiveness.

  Fletcher was surprised that the two teachers could argue like this in front of their students. If there was any doubt before, this confirmed it; there was no love lost between the two men.

  Arcturus sighed and turned to the students.

  ‘Regardless of my opinions on the tournament, it has been a tradition since the battlemage school was founded, two thousand years ago. Usually it would take four years of training before you were allowed to compete in the tournament. Last year, it was reduced to two. Now, it is one. We are lucky, in that all of you have been very fast learners. For most novices it takes two years to learn how to perform a basic shield spell. Even you, Fletcher, are ahead of the game. There are plenty of second years who will be unable to form a decent shield.’

  Fletcher blushed at being singled out, but felt better. At least he wasn’t going to come last in the tournament.

  ‘Now, watch closely,’ Arcturus said, etching the shield symbol in the air and fixing it in place above his index finger. He blasted wyrdlight through it and formed a thick, opaque oval shield in front of him.

  ‘A shield is always stronger when you brace against the impact of whatever is coming your way,’ he lectured, crouching slightly and crossing his forearms in the shape of an X. ‘When defending against an attack spell, the blow has a . . . violent effect.’

  ‘Are you ready?’ Rook asked lazily, holding up a glowing finger.

  ‘I a—’

  Light flared in the room as Rook whipped a lightning spell at Arcturus, crackling the air with forks of electric rays. He had been so fast, Fletcher barely saw his finger move.

  The shield cracked like ice on a lake, emitting loud, sharp snaps with every fracture. Arcturus’s face contorted with effort as he fed more mana to the shield, opaque threads flowing like silk to cover the damage. The force of Rook’s blast pushed Arcturus back, his feet sliding over the leather.

  Arcturus extended a finger from his other hand and stirred the air, then with a roar he uncrossed his arms and fired a kinetic blast around the side of the shield.

  Rook was sent flying back, slamming into the wall and sliding to the ground.

  ‘That is why a shield spell is the first thing you should do when entering a duel. You may get them on the back foot by attacking first. But if you don’t beat them with that first shot, they just need to get one attack spell off whilst you’re distracted and it’s over. To attack without a shield is an all-or-nothing move.’ Arcturus smiled and the shield dissipated. The light was sucked back into his finger with a soft swish.

  ‘It’s best to recover the mana from your shield where possible, especially for those of you with low-level demons. You will need all the mana you can get if you want to last the tournament.’

  Fletcher heard Rory curse under his breath behind him.

  ‘That was a cheap shot!’ Rook snarled, brushing himself off.

  ‘You have been away from the front lines for far too long, Rook,’ Arcturus laughed, twirling his moustache. ‘Even a second lieutenant knows that you need to put a shield up if your first attack doesn’t work. It is bullheaded to think otherwise, if you’ll pardon the pun.’

  ‘We’ll see what you think of bullheadedness when my Minotaur has its claws around your Canid’s throat,’ Rook snarled, taking a step towards Arcturus.

  The two men glared at each other, their hate unmistakable. They reminded Fletcher of rival hunting dogs, straining at their leashes to attack one another. If the noviciates had not been in the room, Fletcher was sure there would have been an illegal duel taking place there and then.

  ‘Class dismissed!’ Rook snapped, striding from the room. ‘It’s not like any of you will catch anything before the tournament anyway. Useless, the lot of you!’

  Fletcher caught Rory grinning. Despite Rook’s best efforts, the nobles were yet to come close to capturing new demons. Even with the charging stone, their scrying ability was too poor to control their demons effectively. On the other hand, the commoners could now handle their demons with ease, sending them running and leaping over the obstacle course they had set up in the corner of the summoning room. Fletcher was good, but his small scrying crystal hampered him. He pulled it from his pocket and scrutinised it.

  ‘You heard him; out, everyone!’ Arcturus growled. ‘Not you, Fletcher. Come here.’

  Fletcher slowly walked up to him, waiting to be berated for being late. Instead, Arcturus laid a hand on his shoulder.

  ‘Let me see that scrying stone.’

  Fletcher ha
nded it to him without a word.

  ‘You won’t win the tournament with this. There are challenges, Fletcher, which will require extensive scrying. I can’t lend you my stone; I’m not allowed to show you any favour and even if I wanted to, Rook is watching me too closely. Sort it out.’

  Arcturus dropped the crystal back into Fletcher’s hand and looked him in the eye.

  ‘That’s the difference between a good warrior and a great one. Rook fought hard, but he lost that battle. Don’t fight hard. Fight smart.’

  46

  The blow came thrumming through the air, slipping past Fletcher’s guard and slamming into his collarbone with a painful crunch.

  ‘Again!’ Sir Caulder growled, kicking out at Fletcher’s shin with his peg leg before swinging another blow at his head. This time, Fletcher caught the blow with his wooden sword, heaving it aside and kneeing Sir Caulder in the stomach.

  The old man collapsed, wheezing on the sand of the arena.

  ‘Fletcher!’ Sylva shouted from the sidelines. ‘Be careful.’

  Sir Caulder held up his hand and slowly got to his feet.

  ‘It’s all right, Sylva,’ he wheezed, rubbing his stomach. ‘A warrior should never hesitate at an opening. Heaven knows the enemy won’t.’

  ‘Didn’t you hit Sir Caulder in the face just ten minutes ago?’ Fletcher teased.

  ‘That was different . . .’ Sylva replied with a rueful smile.

  A yell came from behind them. Fletcher turned to see Othello on top of Seraph, their weapons forgotten on the ground.

  ‘No no no; you need to learn finesse!’ Sir Caulder groaned at them. ‘You can’t just lay into each other until one of you has had enough.’

  The two boys got to their feet, grinning sheepishly. A yellow bruise was blossoming on Seraph’s face and Othello’s lip was swollen like a ripe plum.

  ‘If you went to the trouble of having Uhtred carve us wooden weapons for practice, you should probably use them,’ Fletcher laughed, eyeing the discarded wooden battle-axe and broadsword.