‘I would never tire of it either,’ Fletcher said, leaning back in his saddle. His fear had dissipated, replaced by a sudden desire to move, jump, feel something, anything. He was alive and free and his own man at last.
He wanted to summon Ignatius, so he could share the moment with him. But it was risky, there was barely any more room on the saddle. Yet, there was another who could join him for his first flight, and he pointed his hand into the air. His palm flashed with a brief pain as the pentacle burned violet, then Athena burst into existence with a purr of exhilaration, zooming around Lovett and Fletcher in a flash of white and brown. As Lysander turned his head to look at the new arrival, she regained her composure, settling on her master’s shoulder and gazing serenely back at him. He reached out to stroke her and felt a twinge of jealousy from Ignatius. The emotion was hidden as swiftly as it had appeared, but Fletcher lowered his hand.
‘I remember Athena well,’ Lovett said, her tone suddenly sombre. ‘I was at Vocans with your parents, Fletcher. Of course, they were much older than me. You should know that they were good people. Edmund and Alice were always kind to me, making sure I was looked after, since I was the youngest at the academy. And Arcturus did that too, of course.’
‘Arcturus knew my parents?’ Fletcher asked.
‘Yes. He was the first commoner to come to Vocans. Edmund, Alice and I were the only ones who truly accepted him.’
‘He might be disappointed, now that he knows I’m not his half-brother,’ Fletcher said, his mood taking a turn for the worse. He had always known he could rely on Arcturus to come through for him, as any older brother would. Would Arcturus still care about him, now that he knew the truth?
‘I think he would love you all the more for it,’ Lovett said reassuringly, looking at Fletcher over her shoulder. ‘Your parents died only two years after they graduated, and it hit Arcturus hard. He got that scar searching for the orcs that did it.’
‘I didn’t know that,’ Fletcher said, looking down at his hands. He felt an affectionate nip on his ear, as Athena tried to cheer him up. Feathers brushed against the back of his neck as she rubbed up against him. It comforted him to think that she would have done the same thing to his father, long ago. She was the only connection he had to his past life.
His resolve strengthened and he turned back to the task at hand. Sir Caulder and Berdon would want to know he was OK.
‘Take us to Pelt, Captain,’ Fletcher said, gripping the saddle and pointing at Beartooth’s highest peak. ‘Let’s see how fast this Griffin can go.’
As they spiralled slowly in their descent, Fletcher was surprised to see new structures built outside Pelt’s gates. Ramshackle huts spread out like scattered pebbles, poorly constructed from mud, straw and sparse branches. There was a clearing in the centre, where a host of men and women had gathered, and Fletcher could see Berdon’s imposing figure standing at their head, with Sir Caulder by his side. In front of them stood a line of Didric’s guards, their yellow and black uniforms stark against the muddy ground.
‘Land there,’ Fletcher shouted, pointing his finger between the two groups.
As they neared the crowd, Fletcher could hear yells of anger; he saw pitchforks, bricks and spades held high. Trouble was brewing, and they were going to arrive right in the thick of it.
Lysander landed in a spray of mud, spattering the guards closest to them as Fletcher leaped to the ground, leaving Lovett to take off again and circle above, her steely gaze leaving no doubt as to whose side she was on. Athena followed in her wake, ready to swoop down at the first sign of trouble.
‘Lord Raleigh,’ one of the guards shouted, ‘I respectfully ask you to stand aside. We are here on orders from Lord Cavell. These squatters are to leave his lands immediately.’
Fletcher ignored him and walked closer to Berdon and Sir Caulder. He raised his palm and Ignatius materialised beside him, spitting a warning plume of flame as the nervous guards began to raise their muskets.
‘What’s happening?’ he asked, wishing that he had his khopesh with him.
‘They’re trying to turn us out,’ Berdon said. ‘This is our settlement.’
‘And we aren’t leaving,’ one of the women from the crowd bellowed. ‘You won’t make us homeless a second time.’
There was a cheer of support from those around him, and the mob surged forward, stopping just short of Berdon’s arms. Fletcher recognised her as Janet, the leatherworker who had made his jacket.
‘Most of Pelt have been living in this settlement since Didric and his father called in their debts to build the prison,’ Berdon explained to Fletcher as they looked on. ‘But Didric was granted the land we built on when he was made a noble and he’s been trying to get us off it ever since.’
‘I had no idea,’ Fletcher murmured, shaking his head in disgust.
‘It’s not going to end well,’ Sir Caulder grunted, pulling his sword from his scabbard and prodding at the closest of the angry villagers. ‘Those guards will start firing any minute. Berdon tells me this is the first time they’ve brought their muskets.’
‘Aye, son, I think this is revenge for your victory at the trial,’ Berdon agreed, then peered over his shoulder. ‘I can’t hold them back much longer.’
Fletcher looked at the approaching soldiers. He was to blame for this; he had to fix it. But how?
The homes around him were nothing more than filthy hovels, for the penniless villagers could not afford proper building materials. There was no well for water, no walls to keep out wolves and thieves. The villagers themselves wore ragged, dirty clothes, their unwashed faces streaked with grime. Even Berdon was poorly dressed, and Fletcher could see now that he had lost weight too – his once meaty frame turned to lean, corded muscle.
This was what Didric had reduced them to, turning once proud hunters and artisans into slum-dwelling vagrants. And now, left with no more than a roof over their heads, Didric would take away even that from them.
‘He’ll pay for this,’ Fletcher whispered, as a stone arced over his head. It landed a few feet from the guards, but suddenly muskets were raised high and fingers tightened on triggers.
‘They can’t kill all of us, lads,’ Janet bellowed again. ‘Our homes are all we have left!’
‘It’s not worth dying over!’ Fletcher shouted. The mob’s shouting reduced to a murmur as they turned their eyes on to him.
‘We have nothing else,’ Janet replied, curling her lip and spitting to show her contempt. ‘Without these “homes” we’d be begging for food on the streets of Boreas, if the Pinkertons don’t run us out of the city first. Half of us will freeze to death before the year is out.’
Her words struck Fletcher hard. It was so easy to think that they could rebuild their lives, find jobs elsewhere. Yet he could still remember that fateful night two years ago, when he himself had been forced to leave Pelt. The fear, the doubt. Even then, he’d had money, clothes, weapons. These people had nothing. He wished that he could help them, but he had barely anything to give.
‘Cat’s got your tongue has it, Lord Raleigh?’ Janet mocked. ‘That’s right, we know all about your heritage now. Get off your high horse and stand aside. This is where we make our stand. There’s nowhere else.’
But there was. The realisation dawned on him, like sunlight breaking through the clouds. It would be hard work, and he would not be there to help them. But he owed these villagers. Owed Berdon.
‘Wait! There is somewhere you can go!’ Fletcher shouted. Ignatius snarled as the guards took a step closer. ‘Raleighshire. You can resettle there.’
Silence descended, broken only by the clinking of metal from the guards’ uniforms.
‘There are abandoned villages there. Land for hunting, rivers for fishing. It’s warm, on the jungle border. You can rebuild. Start anew.’ Fletcher spoke rapidly, for there was another bark of warning from Ignatius as the guards moved forward once again.
‘You think we’d be safer, near the jungles? With orc raiders c
oming over the border every day, slaughtering us? I’d rather take my chances right here, right now,’ Janet hissed.
‘You know me, all of you,’ Fletcher said, addressing the crowd. ‘I will be the liege lord of the lands you live on. I swear I will do my utmost to keep you safe and secure, when I return there.’
Ignatius scampered up his leg and on to his shoulders, and Fletcher took Berdon and Sir Caulder by their arms.
It was time to change tactics. ‘You can die here, like stubborn fools,’ Fletcher said, walking towards the crowd. ‘Or you can follow us, to a new life. It’s up to you.’
Fletcher pushed through the mob, walking away from the soldiers. He felt their eyes on him as he brushed past, and he hoped they couldn’t see the red blush of fear burning the back of his neck. Had it worked?
Berdon spoke loudly in his deep baritone voice as they broke out of the gathered people.
‘Those who would come with us, gather your things and meet me at the edge of the encampment. Take only what you can carry, for the road will be long. The rest of you, I shall see in the afterlife.’
Fletcher, Berdon and Sir Caulder walked on, not looking back. They heard the squelch of footsteps behind them, but if it was more than a few, Fletcher couldn’t tell.
‘How many are following us?’ Sir Caulder whispered out of the side of his mouth, grunting with effort as he wrenched his peg leg through the mud.
‘No idea,’ Berdon murmured back. ‘Don’t look. Give them a few minutes.’
They walked on, through the last of the hovels, until they stood alongside the mountain path that led down from the village. There were no gunshots, but they kept their heads facing forward, looking out into the valleys below. The sun was still rising in the distance, bathing the treetops in golden light.
‘If it’s all right with you, I’d like to go with Berdon here, back to Raleighshire,’ Sir Caulder said, his voice tentative, barely louder than a whisper. ‘It’s where I belong, and I don’t think I’ll be safe at Vocans after what I said at the trial.’
‘You’re welcome to, of course. You know, I didn’t get a chance to thank you. You took a great risk, telling that story,’ Fletcher said to Sir Caulder.
‘Think nothing of it, my dear boy. It was my duty. I am glad that I was able to save you, even if I was unable to save your parents all those years ago. Can you forgive me?’ His voice quavered, and Fletcher remembered that, though a capable warrior, Sir Caulder was an old man, nearing the end of his years. He could imagine how terrible his guilt had been, kept hidden for so long.
‘There is nothing to forgive. The past is the past,’ Fletcher said. ‘I will focus on the family and friends I have left, you included.’
He paused and turned to Berdon, who was staring out at the sunrise, avoiding his eyes.
‘You know you’re still my dad, right?’
Berdon closed his eyes and smiled, the tension dropping from his shoulders.
‘There are some things I have to do soon,’ Fletcher went on, putting his arm around Berdon’s broad back. ‘Things that will take me away from you. But I promise I’ll come home. We can found the new village together, far away from the hellhole this place has become.’
‘I’ll hold you to that, son,’ Berdon said, wrapping Fletcher in a bear hug that made his ribs creak.
There was an awkward cough from behind them, and Fletcher peered over Berdon’s shoulder to see a crowd of people standing there, their belongings piled high on handcarts and a lone, rickety wagon. Janet stepped out from the crowd, her face briefly shaded as Lysander’s shadow glided by.
‘Well, you’ve convinced us. Now stop this soppy rubbish and tell us how to get there.’
18
Fletcher’s demons ignored each other on the flight to Vocans, despite being inches apart – with Athena on his shoulder and Ignatius around his neck. It wasn’t that they didn’t like each other. Fletcher could tell it was a strange sense of uncertainty, compounded by competitiveness.
The journey was quiet, with little conversation between him and Lovett, though it would have been hard to speak anyway, with the wind snatching away the few words they did attempt. He tried not to dwell on the events of the past few days, for it deeply unsettled him and left him plagued by self-doubt. Even thoughts of Berdon were bittersweet, for their reunion had been short-lived and their parting as painful as the first time he had left him.
Instead, Fletcher busied himself with watching the land below, sweeping into the horizon like a slow-moving patchwork quilt of yellows, browns and greens, broken by threads of blue and grey as roads and rivers wended their way across the plains.
It was almost nightfall when he saw the dark facade of Vocans in the distance, and as they circled down to land in the courtyard, he realised how much he had missed the crumbling old castle.
‘You’d better hurry if you’re going to catch the end of the Tournament,’ Lovett said as they landed, propelling him towards the doors. ‘I’ll unsaddle Lysander, you go on ahead.’
‘Thanks for the ride. I’ll see you in there,’ Fletcher said. ‘Sorry I was such poor company.’
Lovett tutted and waved him away.
‘Don’t worry about it.’
He hurried through the double doors to find the atrium silent as a grave, his footsteps echoing in the empty space. It was strange, to be back. It had been a year, the longest year of his life, but it felt like only yesterday he had walked these halls. Somehow, he felt more at home at Vocans than he had back in Pelt.
Funnily enough, having both Ignatius and Athena on his shoulders barely hampered him, though Athena took the opportunity to stretch her wings and fluttered into the air, gliding above and keeping watch for potential dangers. Ignatius yawned at her, then wrapped himself more closely around Fletcher’s neck, as if to let her know that she was wasting her time.
Soon Fletcher was pacing down the stairs and along the corridor of cells. He could hear the roar of the crowd reverberating along the cold stone walls, rising and falling as a battle for supremacy was waged on the sands of the arena. As he neared the entrance, Fletcher realised it must be the final round, for the cells were empty, with all the contestants but the two in the arena having been knocked out of the Tournament.
His entrance went unnoticed by the spectators, so focused were they on the events below them. Nobles, generals and servants alike added their voices to the chorus, yet now Fletcher could make out one name being chanted.
‘Didric! Didric!’
In the sweltering heat of the arena, two figures whirled around each other on the sand, jabbing and parrying as they sought an opening. There seemed to be no demons present, the rules of the final round set up as a trial by combat, just as Fletcher’s second round with Malik had been in his own Tournament.
Didric was armed with a long, thin rapier on a basket hilt, designed for fencing rather than killing orcs. His blond hair was plastered across his head as he sweated in the sweltering heat of the arena, and a stain of dried blood crusted his lips and chin, the remains of a nosebleed recently staunched.
His scarred face grinned in a savage rictus at his opponent, the once flabby body now lean and hard, extending and rescinding with the practised ease of a trained swordsman.
The other combatant was clearly a dwarf, with a long wave of red hair that lashed the air as they dodged and countered, one hand clutching a spiked bangle as a knuckleduster for striking and parrying, the other wielding a short, wedge-shaped blade on a carved bone handle that Fletcher recognised as a seax.
The dwarf took a few steps back against a sudden flurry of blows from Didric, then lashed out with a foot to send a spray of sand into his face. As Didric spun away, pawing at his eyes, the dwarf took the opportunity to dodge sideways into open space, for they had been pressed up against the wall of the arena.
Fletcher was surprised to see the beardless chin of a female dwarf, her eyes as green as Othello’s, with a smattering of freckles across the bridge of her button nose.
She wore no veil as other dwarven females did, but he recognised the spiked bangle in her hand, a torq, the female equivalent of the dwarf male’s tomahawk.
‘Fletcher, down here,’ Othello shouted, and Fletcher saw him waving, a few steps down.
Fletcher made his way to Othello’s side and took a seat, never taking his eyes off the two fighters as Didric closed in once again, spitting words under his breath. Fletcher could not hear what they were, but he could tell from the way the girl’s eyes widened that they were offensive.
‘What’s her name again?’ Fletcher asked, as the girl parried another blow with her torq and swept her seax at Didric’s legs, forcing him to leap awkwardly over her blade.
‘Her name is Cress. Should have won this contest already – Didric wasn’t trained to fence a dual-wielding fighter. See his nose? She got him in the face with her torq, but Rook deemed it a non-killing blow. Typical.’ Othello pointed at the black-clad judge in the corner, his eyes glittering with anger as Cress’s seax slit the cloth of Didric’s uniform at the neck, the flesh beneath untouched thanks to the barrier spell.
‘Come on,’ Othello bellowed, his voice lost in the crowd as they booed Didric’s poor defence. ‘A neck blow is fatal!’
Rook shook his head, pursing his lips. Despite the obvious support for Didric from the almost entirely human crowd, several booed his decision. Noticing the lack of dwarves present, Fletcher nudged Othello.
‘Where’s Atilla? In the infirmary?’
‘No,’ Othello replied. ‘He and Cress … let’s just say they don’t get on. After he lost to Didric he stormed out.’
Below, Cress swept at Didric’s stomach, forcing him to hunch over to avoid it. As he did so, her torq came thrumming through the air, leaving spiked indents in his face and producing a resounding crack that Fletcher heard even over the screams from the crowd. Didric dropped like a stone, spread-eagled on the floor. Even so, Rook gave it a full ten seconds before finally nodding his head, to a smattering of applause from those around him.
Summoner: Book 2: The Inquisition Page 12