‘Why don’t you just get Dame Fairhaven to heal it?’ Fletcher asked.
‘The healing spell only works for flesh wounds, remember? If you start messing about with healing bones, they fix crooked. Trust me, I’ve asked. I want a crack at Tarquin as much as you do, maybe even more so. But I know that I wouldn’t stand a chance.’
‘Look, it might not matter anyway,’ Fletcher argued, pointing down the corridor. ‘Tarquin may have beaten Seraph, but Sylva beat Isadora. Sylva and Tarquin are fighting right now to see who goes to the final. If she wins, I’m going to tap out. The dwarves need one of their own to make it as a finalist; it will impress the generals more. I can say I have concussion. That’s half true anyway.’
He rubbed the cut on his head, where the stone had struck. The injury had almost been a blessing in a way. When Scipio saw the broken skin, he immediately realised that there had been foul play. The Provost had suggested that Zacharias and the Favershams take a break and had replaced them with more impartial nobles, who would shield Fletcher properly for the next fight.
There was a rumbling noise from Othello’s cell. Solomon was groaning in distress. He paced around the cell, before stopping to stroke the splint on Othello’s leg. Ignatius chirred sympathetically, lapping Fletcher’s face with a wet tongue.
‘I’ll be fine, Ignatius. Tarquin doesn’t know about the tattoos. He’s going to underestimate us,’ Fletcher whispered.
Sir Caulder rapped on the cage bars with his staff, making Fletcher jump.
‘Come on, you two. Battle’s over.’
‘Did Sylva win?’ Fletcher asked as Sir Caulder unlocked the cells.
‘See for yourself,’ the old soldier said grimly.
Dame Fairhaven and Scipio were carrying Sylva out on a stretcher. Her arms, legs and face were black and blue, with a terrible lump on the side of her head. Sariel staggered behind them, her tail between her legs. The Canid’s fur was matted with blood, and there was a nasty scratch along her side that ran from snout to tail.
‘He hit Sylva with a kinetic blast,’ Scipio said, glancing at their worried faces. ‘She landed badly. We don’t know the extent of the damage yet.’
‘Poor girl, she had to fight both twins, one after the other,’ Dame Fairhaven said, shaking her head. ‘She used most of her mana in the first round, and then it took all her physical strength to beat Isadora, so she was exhausted when she went up against Tarquin. She put up a hell of a fight though. Nobody will go away thinking that the elves are weak,’ Dame Fairhaven said, her voice laced with sympathy.
‘With a head injury like this, it’s not safe to heal her, especially if her skull is damaged. We’re going to let her rest in the infirmary. If she wakes up, we will let you know.’
Fletcher clenched his fists, looking at the broken body on the stretcher.
‘Let’s go.’
Fletcher helped the dwarf limp into the arena. He remembered helping Atilla the same way; remembered the blood that trickled down his back as he carried him. The tears on Othello’s face when he saw they were alive. The Forsyths were the centre of it all, like a fat spider in the centre of a web of deceit. Fletcher was going to make them pay for what they had done.
Othello could barely stand when they finally reached the sand. His face was tinged green, with beads of sweat dotting his forehead. The dwarf was right; he wouldn’t last two seconds in a battle with Tarquin. Fletcher was their only hope now.
‘The rules are simple,’ Rook stated, striding between the two cadets. ‘Demons cannot attack summoners, since the barrier spell is ineffective against demonic attack. My Minotaur will be helping to keep your demons away from your opponents, in case they get overzealous.’
It was then that Fletcher noticed the bullheaded demon, lurking behind the fallen pillar. It stood at seven feet tall, with sharp, curved horns and shaggy hair as black as his own. Its cloven hooves left round imprints in the sand as it paced back and forth, as if it couldn’t keep its rage in check. Its hands would have been identical to a man’s, were it not for the thick, black claws that jutted from its fingers. A pair of red-rimmed eyes stared at him balefully, then the Minotaur turned away, misting the air with a snort of disdain.
‘Yes, he is quite the specimen isn’t he?’ Rook noticed Fletcher staring. ‘Caliban has a fulfilment level of eleven, so he should be able to handle any unruly demons with ease. You have been warned.’
The Inquisitor continued on, walking around the arena, his hands clasped behind his back.
‘If you step out of the arena, you lose. If your demon is knocked unconscious or leaves the arena, you will lose. If you kill the demon of your opponent, you will be disqualified and also expelled. We do not fight to the death here, and demons are a precious commodity. So, warn them to be cautious. They may injure, but not maim. They may hurt, but not kill.’
‘What about us, can we kill?’ Tarquin sneered from the sidelines. He was seated on one of the dismantled platforms, stroking one of Trebius’s heads.
‘No, the same rules apply as they did in your last match, Master Tarquin,’ Rook said, smiling at the young noble. ‘If you land a spell or a sword cut powerful enough to be deemed a killing blow, you win. The barrier spell will prevent you from being shocked, burned or cut, although it will hurt like hell if you’re hit. As I’m sure you are aware, Tarquin, after you finished with the elf.’
‘She did seem to be in an awful lot of pain,’ Tarquin smirked. ‘But I soon put her out of her misery. I’m sympathetic that way.’
‘Come on, let’s get this over with,’ Fletcher growled through gritted teeth. Othello was already limping to the side of the arena.
‘Begin!’ Rook shrieked.
Fletcher gave Rook a cool smile and watched as Othello clambered out of the arena and dropped on the floor.
‘Oh, no,’ Tarquin shouted with exaggerated dramatics. ‘I was so hoping to fight with the half-man. Defeating two subhumans in one day; wouldn’t that have been a treat.’
‘Shut your filthy mouth and come and fight me, Tarquin. Let’s get the final started, right now.’
Tarquin rolled his eyes and strode into the arena.
‘Oh, very well. Let’s get on with it.’
‘Are the barriers up?’ Scipio asked, holding up his hand.
‘They are, Provost,’ said a noble from the crowd.
‘In that ca—’
‘Begin!’ Rook screamed.
Tarquin was already hurling fireballs before Fletcher even heard Rook’s voice. He ducked behind a rock just in time, feeling the heat as one singed his hair.
‘Ignatius, hide!’ Fletcher whispered, sending the Salamander darting off into the jumble of rocks. Trebius was a powerful demon, but a well-placed fireball from Ignatius could end the battle there and then. Ignatius just needed to avoid his serpentine heads.
A kinetic ball slammed into the rock, crumbling the other side.
‘Come out, Fletcher, I want to play,’ Tarquin yelled.
‘I’m just getting warmed up,’ Fletcher yelled back, firing up an oval shield with a blast of mana. He could feel his reserves draining out of him. He knew from his studies that Hydras had very high mana levels. If he and Tarquin matched blow for blow, it would not end well.
He rolled out from behind the rock, sprinting for the cover of the fallen pillar. His shield crackled as a fireball slammed into it, but it was a small one, not nearly enough to knock him off his feet.
‘Try this one for size,’ Tarquin shouted, flinging a second from behind his back.
The fireball hit the shield like a battering ram, knocking Fletcher flying. As he scrambled to get up, Tarquin whipped another into the shield, blasting him back into the dirt.
‘Come on; I thought you were going to make it interesting,’ Tarquin laughed, as Fletcher huddled behind a rock. ‘At least drag it out a bit.
Trebius, find the Salamander. I want to injure!’
Fletcher took the opportunity to strap on his eyeglass. Ignatius was on the other side of the arena, trying to sneak up behind Trebius. The task was near impossible, with the three heads covering all angles.
‘Go for it, Ignatius,’ Fletcher whispered. ‘You can take him.’
The Salamander darted out, haring towards the Hydra. He leaped from rock to rock, avoiding the heads as they snapped at him with vicious intent. With one last lunge, Ignatius skidded below Trebius, unleashing a tornado of flame against his unprotected underside.
Trebius roared as the fire scorched his flesh. He spun and stamped, but Ignatius was tenacious, weaving through the dancing claws and lashing the demon with tongues of flame.
‘Enough!’ Tarquin roared, pointing his finger at the milling demons. A kinetic ball flew under Trebius, knocking Ignatius head over tail into the centre of the arena. The demon lay there, like a broken toy on a nursery floor.
‘I believe this match is finished,’ Rook laughed, as the Minotaur shambled over and gave Ignatius a tentative prod with his hoof.
‘Hear hear,’ Zacharias shouted from the crowd.
Trebius hissed, stomping towards the fallen demon. He stopped a few feet away, lowering his three heads and flicking forked tongues over the prone figure.
But Fletcher felt no sorrow, no disappointment. He could sense Ignatius’s mind, his intentions.
‘That’s right, Ignatius,’ Fletcher breathed. ‘Fight dirty. Gentlemen’s fighting is for gentlemen.’
Fletcher absorbed the shield back into his body. With the manoeuvre he was about to do, he was only going to have one shot at this. It flew in the face of everything Arcturus had taught them about duelling. But it was a risk well worth taking.
‘All right, Tarquin. Let’s see how you like being hit by all three barrels at once,’ Fletcher muttered, powering up his three attack-spell fingers. ‘I hope you’re ready, Ignatius.’
Fletcher leaped to his feet and sprinted full tilt across the arena. Ignatius burst into life with a screech, blasting upwards with a wave of roaring flame.
The Hydra bellowed and reared on its back legs, then came crashing down at Ignatius with deadly force. A split second before he was crushed, Ignatius dissipated into white light, infused through the pentacle on Fletcher’s palm.
Realising what Fletcher had done, Tarquin threw up a hasty shield. It was just in time, as Fletcher fired a spiral of lightning, fire and kinetic energy that sent Tarquin skidding back to the very edge of the arena, his feet leaving deep furrows in the earth.
The shield cracked and buckled, but Tarquin was just managing to hold on, feeding thick ribbons of white light to repair the damage. Fletcher doubled the power of the attack, flooding his body with mana and pushing it into the twisting corkscrew of energy that held Tarquin at bay. His fingers seared with pain and the air around the beam distorted and hummed with intensity, forks of lightning shattering rocks into glittering fragments. The sand below turned into a channel of molten glass, bubbling like lava.
Ignatius was with him now, sending every last ounce of energy and encouragement. Fletcher roared, putting everything he had into one final burst of mana, draining every last drop from their reserves. A shockwave flipped the world on its head as the shield exploded.
He spun and tumbled in the air, buffeted by a spray of dust and rock. Then he was on his back, staring at the ceiling. Darkness overwhelmed him.
53
‘Fletcher. Wake up,’ Othello’s voice seemed to be far away. Someone tapped his face.
‘You did it, Fletcher,’ Othello whispered. ‘You beat him.’
‘I won?’ Fletcher asked blearily. He opened his eyes.
Othello’s face stared down at him, his green eyes sparkling with joy.
‘You put us all to shame. Tarquin hit the ceiling when his shield broke, literally. If Zacharias hadn’t caught him with a kinetic cushion, he would probably be up here with us now.’
Fletcher sat up and saw they were in the infirmary. Lovett and Sylva lay in the beds next to him, both still and silent. Sariel was curled up beneath Sylva’s bed, snoring softly. Valens had settled in the soft fur on the Canid’s back, equally oblivious to the world.
‘How is she?’ Fletcher asked, reaching across the bed and brushing an errant thread of pale hair from the elf’s cheek.
‘Dame Fairhaven said she is going to be fine. She’s going to have to heal on her own though, just like me. Her arm is broken in two places.’
Othello gazed at her with complex emotion in his face, then clutched her hand.
‘We couldn’t have done it without her, you know. She beat Isadora and weakened Tarquin, at great risk to herself. She could have tapped out, like I did. Instead, she chose to fight, even though she knew she couldn’t win,’ he murmured.
‘She’s twice the warrior I am,’ Fletcher replied, watching her chest rise and fall.
‘It was you two who did it in the end,’ Othello said, with a hint of disappointment. ‘I wish I could tell my father it was me. I wanted the Forsyths to know it was the dwarves who cost them their victory.’
‘Othello, the dwarves gave me the tools I needed to win and if it wasn’t for you, I would have used up all my mana fighting Rufus in the semi-final,’ Fletcher said, looking the dwarf directly in the eye. ‘This was all three of us. Even Seraph played his part; I bet he was no pushover when it came to his fight with Tarquin. I just wish Sylva was awake to celebrate our victory.’
‘She will be,’ Othello said, rubbing the tiredness from his eyes. ‘It’s the first thing I’m going to tell her. Hell, she’ll probably be offered a commission as soon as she wakes up.’
‘I’m sure you will too, Othello. The dwarven recruits are going to need leaders. By reaching the semi-final, I think you proved yourself. Just remember why you came here: to show the world that the dwarves are worthy allies,’ Fletcher said.
‘That’s true,’ Othello replied with a grin. ‘I didn’t think about that. Scipio will definitely let Atilla join Vocans now; he is my twin, after all. The first thing I’m going to do after this is learn how the Inquisition tests for adepts. We will need battlemages in the dwarven battalions.’
‘You can count on it. I will bring the subject up at the council meeting straight away, if I can,’ Fletcher replied.
He felt a flash of anxiety as he pictured a long table in a dark room, surrounded by the most powerful men in the land. Zacharias would be there, trying to discredit him at every turn. Even with the Forsyth twins beaten, he would still have their father to contend with.
Footsteps echoed in the stairwell, until Seraph’s excited face appeared in the doorway.
‘Guys, Dame Fairhaven said it was OK for me to come and get you, if you’re able. They’re going to start handing out commissions soon. Come on!’ He disappeared from sight and they could soon hear him running down the stairs.
‘Someone fancies his chances,’ Othello laughed. ‘Help me down, would you? I can’t put any weight on my damned leg.’
‘I swear, half my life seems to be spent as a crutch for an injured dwarf,’ Fletcher joked.
He swung his legs over the bed and stood. There was a rush of dizziness for a moment, but it soon passed after a few deep breaths.
‘We must look like a right pair,’ Fletcher said, putting his arm around Othello’s shoulders. ‘I think I’m going to need your help as much as you need mine.’
He winced as he took Othello’s weight, his aching body complaining at the effort.
They hobbled down the steps and corridors, stopping to rest every few skips.
‘Come on, you can’t miss getting made a captain,’ Othello said.
At the reminder of his captaincy, the war trophies and weapons that lined the corridors took on a sudden new
meaning for Fletcher. Sooner or later, an orc might be swinging one of those fearsome weapons at his head.
The atrium was milling with nobles and generals when they arrived, all of them staring at the pair as they staggered in. Some even had fear in their eyes.
‘Pure, unadulterated genius,’ Scipio shouted, striding over. ‘Tattooing yourself to skip etching altogether; using a scrying stone as an eyeglass. Huge jumps forward in battlemage technology – how on earth did we not think of them before?’
Behind him, Fletcher could see Tarquin being berated by his father, hanging his head in shame. The other noviciates were seated on the low benches brought in from the dining hall, waiting for the commissioning ceremony in silence.
‘Rest assured, I will be asking you all about this tattooing business later. Now, General Kavanagh, if you would bring over the papers so we can get Fletcher all signed up. When is the King’s council, next month? We will need to get a tutor in to teach him about Hominum’s politics before then; as a commoner he won’t know a thing.’ Scipio fussed about Fletcher like an overprotective mother, brushing the dust from his shoulders.
Fletcher stood up straight and surveyed the room, meeting the eyes of the generals and nobility with a steady gaze. With pride, he considered what he and his friends had achieved.
Sylva and Othello had proved to the upper echelons of Hominum that their peoples were a force to be reckoned with. Seraph’s elevation to the nobility would be a smooth one, now that he had demonstrated his tenacity in the arena. As for Fletcher, he was just glad to have kept the council seat from the Forsyths and secured himself a bright future. He only wished Berdon was there to see it.
He squeezed Othello’s shoulder and nudged him, pointing at the generals and nobles.
‘One of those men is going to give you a commission today. Do you have any preference?’
‘As long as it’s not Zacharias or the Favershams,’ Othello chuckled back. ‘You should have seen the look on their faces when I beat Rufus.’
The main doors slammed open, sending a gust of wind rushing through the atrium. Three figures stood silhouetted against the light outside, before the oak doors were slammed shut again.
Summoner: Book 1: The Novice Page 31