Summoner: Book 2: The Inquisition

by Taran Matharu

  ‘Cress wins the tournament!’ he said, clapping twice before letting his hands drop to his side. He leaped into the arena as Didric regained consciousness, and helped the woozy boy to his feet. Cress stood proudly, wiping her brow, seemingly unconcerned by the lack of celebration around her.

  Clearly, the attacks from the Anvils had done their work. The anti-dwarven sentiment seemed worse than when Fletcher had first arrived at Vocans. Most of the crowd were already dispersing, disappointed that their champion had lost the battle. Othello shook his head as the room began to empty. It was a poor celebration of a well-earned victory.

  ‘Watch out – the twins are here,’ Othello whispered.

  Tarquin and Isadora were climbing the stairs ahead of them with a sweaty Didric in tow. The trio stopped a few steps below, staring Fletcher and Othello down.

  ‘What a touching family reunion,’ Didric mocked, earning himself a punch on the arm from Tarquin. He caught the hateful look Fletcher gave him, and they stared each other down. It was all Fletcher could do to stop himself from shoving Didric back down the stairs, but Othello grasped his wrist to steady him.

  Isadora rolled her eyes and clicked her fingers to get Fletcher’s attention.

  ‘Dearest cousin, it has been far too long.’ She smiled prettily and gave Fletcher an exaggerated curtsy. ‘Why, it’s been over a year, has it not? What have you been doing all this time?’

  ‘You’re no family of mine,’ Fletcher spat, the memory of his long incarceration, and those behind it, still fresh in his mind.

  ‘I couldn’t agree more,’ Tarquin replied, a vicious sneer on his face. ‘Once a commoner, always a commoner. As long as the inheritance from Aunt Alice is still ours, I don’t care what you call yourself.’

  ‘You can keep your blood money,’ Fletcher said. ‘Just stay the hell away from me.’

  ‘Gladly,’ Isadora said, the pretty smile gone from her face. She lifted her nose in the air and sniffed pointedly.

  ‘Come on,’ she smirked, sauntering away. ‘It stinks of dwarf here anyway.’

  Othello reddened with anger, and Fletcher winced as the dwarf tightened his grip on Fletcher’s wrist to stop himself from lashing out.

  ‘Nice haircut by the way,’ Tarquin called over his shoulder. ‘You must tell me where you had it done.’

  ‘That’s it …’ Othello growled, leaping to his feet. Fletcher followed suit, but the trio were gone and instead they found themselves staring at a startled Rory and Genevieve.

  ‘Hello,’ Fletcher said, unsure of himself. The three had not parted on the best of terms – he had almost killed Rory’s Mite in the Tournament, after all.

  ‘Hello. I see you got out then,’ Rory said awkwardly.

  ‘That’s right,’ Fletcher replied, scratching his neck.

  ‘Good … good,’ Rory said, avoiding Fletcher’s gaze. ‘I’m glad.’

  They stood there in an awkward silence, until Genevieve stepped forward with a fixed smile.

  ‘Welcome back,’ she said, giving Fletcher a firm hug. ‘Let’s catch up later.’

  She took Rory by the arm and they walked swiftly away.

  ‘Well, that went … well,’ Othello said.

  ‘We just need some time,’ Fletcher said. ‘They won’t forgive me all at once.’

  ‘Aye,’ Othello said. ‘Though you’d think a year would be long enough, right?’

  But Fletcher didn’t reply, because Cress had clambered out of the arena and was making her way up towards them, brushing sand from her cadet’s uniform.

  Moments later, she stood with her hands on her hips before them, eyes sparkling.

  ‘So you’re the great Fletcher,’ she said, flashing him a broad grin. ‘I thought you’d be taller.’

  ‘You’re not so tall yourself,’ Fletcher said, but he couldn’t help but smile back. Her good humour was infectious.

  ‘Cress and Atilla both made a good showing this year,’ Othello said, smiling too. ‘Beating that braggart Didric was the culmination of a lot of hard work and training. I can’t tell you how unpleasant it’s been studying with him. He and Atlas have been bosom buddies since they first met.’

  ‘You can say that again,’ Cress said.

  She nodded across the room, and Fletcher saw Didric was sitting on the other side of the arena, beside Tarquin, Isadora and Atlas. Though Didric wore the same black and yellow uniform Fletcher had seen before, Fletcher noticed that Atlas and the twins wore the uniform of the Forsyth Furies – black cloth with silver buttons and epaulettes.

  ‘Why are they wearing their uniforms? Surely they’ve only just graduated?’ Fletcher asked.

  ‘Tarquin and Isadora were promoted to lieutenants after last year’s tournament, Seraph too,’ Othello said, following Fletcher’s gaze. ‘So the twins have been serving in their father’s regiment all year. I guess they’ve brought Atlas his own uniform, now he’s graduated too.’

  With a year of fighting on the front lines, the twins would be more formidable than ever, Fletcher thought with dread.

  ‘I know all about the mission, by the way,’ Cress whispered, sliding into the seat beside them. ‘Rook told us about it before the Tournament began. I want to join your team, if you’ll have me. I think I’ve proven myself a worthy fighter.’

  ‘Team?’ Fletcher asked.

  But before she could answer, Sylva squeezed in between them and sat down, still adorned in the green armour from the day before.

  ‘What did I miss?’ she asked Fletcher. ‘Did Didric win? I would have stayed, but I went looking for you.’

  ‘Oh. No, Cress here beat him,’ Fletcher said, leaning forward awkwardly and pointing at the young dwarf.

  ‘Well done,’ Sylva said, holding out her hand. Cress took it with a hint of a frown, unhappy at being so rudely interrupted.

  Fletcher felt strange sitting so close to Sylva, for they had not spoken since the council meeting. It was difficult for him, to swing between friend and diplomat so quickly, especially after her hesitation to support him.

  ‘So, as I was say—’ Cress began, but then stopped as Atilla stomped down the stairs beside them. He avoided her gaze pointedly, before nodding respectfully at Fletcher and Sylva.

  ‘It’s good to see you – Fletcher, Sylva,’ he muttered, avoiding Cress’s frank gaze. ‘It has been too long.’

  ‘Aren’t you glad to see me too?’ Cress said brightly, her tone bordering on the sarcastic.

  Atilla reddened and turned his head away, then growled under his breath.

  ‘It’s bad enough among the students, but in front of all these people? It’s … disgusting.’

  Fletcher creased his brow, confused. What was Atilla talking about?

  ‘Do I really look that bad?’ Cress said, cupping her face between her hands and fluttering her eyelashes at him.

  ‘Cover yourself,’ Atilla said, his face darkening even further.

  ‘Understand one thing, Atilla,’ Cress said, her pleasant tone taking on a dangerous edge. ‘Dwarf women wear the veil because they want to. It’s for themselves, not for you. If I choose to reveal my face then that is my choice to make. You have no say in the matter.’

  ‘It is immodest,’ Atilla said, still looking away. ‘You flaunt yourself for all to see.’

  ‘And what about me, Atilla?’ Sylva interjected. Her tone was calm, but Fletcher could see the tips of her ears had gone red, a sure sign she was angry.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Atilla said, confused.

  ‘Am I immodest? Do I flaunt myself?’

  Atilla spluttered, but could think of no reply.

  ‘What about you, Atilla?’ Cress asked, pressing home the advantage. ‘You have a handsome face, a luxurious pair of moustaches. Why, I’ve seen you training bare-chested. You expose yourself to the world and to me. How immodest of you.’

  Atilla stomped his foot in anger.

  ‘I will not argue with fools. Cress knows what she is doing is wrong, even if you non-dwarves don’t understa
nd. You, brother, should not be so accepting. She is supposed to be an example to all dwarves, and everyone in the Hominum Empire will see her face if she joins the mission. Imagine if the other girls follow her example?’

  Othello looked at Cress and gave her a tentative smile.

  ‘I see nothing to complain about,’ he said.

  Atilla huffed and stomped away, making his way around the arena towards Seraph, who had just noticed them and was waving happily. He was wearing a gaudy amber uniform with a scarlet sash, and was armed with a scimitar and a holstered pistol.

  As Fletcher and his friends waved back, Rook strode into the centre of the Arena, etching a spell as he did so. When he completed the etching, a tremendous bang echoed around the chamber, loud enough to hurt Fletcher’s eardrums and leave a dull ringing sound in his head.

  ‘Now that you have all shut up, we can begin the selection. Fletcher, Isadora, Malik and Seraph, come and join me in the arena.’

  19

  Sweat prickled Fletcher’s back as he stepped into the arena, infusing Ignatius and Athena with a flash of his palm, for they were the only demons in the room. He could still sense both of them in his mind and, stranger still, a third connection, slowly forming between the two. Perhaps Athena and Ignatius were beginning to trust each other.

  As he entered the pool of flickering torchlight, memories of the last time he had walked these sands swam to the forefront of his mind. The dangers he had faced then would be nothing compared with what was to come.

  ‘You have all been told why you are here,’ Rook announced, pacing back and forth along the sand. ‘There are two objectives to your mission. The first, to destroy several thousand goblin eggs before they hatch. The second, to rescue Lady Cavendish, Rufus’s mother.’

  Rufus sat a little straighter in the stands as the students turned to look at him, and Fletcher could see his knuckles whiten as he gripped the hilt of his sword. The young noble had not impressed Fletcher last year, for the boy had fawned over the Forsyth twins. He hoped that Rufus would not be a liability on such a dangerous mission, especially with the added pressure of rescuing his own mother.

  A flash of blue turned Fletcher’s attention back to Rook. He had produced a wyrdlight, and the ball of light was slicing back and forth through the air. As it travelled, it left a trail of azure light in its wake, etching a shape as one might with a spell.

  Soon, an enormous four-sided pyramid hung in the air, with a strange web of tubes surrounding a central chamber beneath it. It spun gently, casting the room in an eerie blue glow.

  ‘Our intelligence suggests that the goblin eggs are located within the volcanic cave network beneath this ancient pyramid, deep in the heart of the orc jungles,’ Rook said, jabbing his finger at the web of tunnels below the pyramid. ‘Lady Cavendish is kept somewhere within too, and for good reason – it is the most secure place in the whole of Orcdom. The pyramid is their most sacred ground.’

  This was all news to Fletcher, and his heart seemed to batter his ribs as his pulse quickened. He had thought they would be raiding a remote orc village, not losing themselves in the bowels of the earth.

  ‘The Celestial Corps will drop you as close as they can, then you will make your way there on foot. You must – and I cannot stress this enough – you must meet at midnight, at the back entrance of the pyramid, three days after the drop-off. From that point, you will have a maximum of eight hours to complete your mission – that is as long as the Corps can wait on standby, halting their patrols of Hominum’s skies. Remember, you place the people of Hominum in jeopardy with every hour you take, for if the orcs notice the open skies they will send the Wyverns to raid helpless towns.’

  Fletcher gulped, imagining the destruction a single Wyvern could cause to an unprotected settlement. It was a huge risk to take.

  ‘The Celestial Corps will be watching through the scrying crystals and will try to arrive as soon as your mission is completed. If any team is not with the others at that point, it will have to find its own way home.’

  Rook paused again, allowing the gravity of his words to sink in.

  Fletcher knew that attempting to return home alone would be a death sentence. Around him, the others wore grim expressions. Even Tarquin and Isadora looked worried, the colour drained from their faces. They had been fighting on the front lines for over a year – and knew better than any what the teams would be up against.

  ‘As you all know, scrying crystals are to be distributed around Hominum,’ Rook said. ‘Soon, every tavern, village hall and public square will each have four crystals, one for each team, where the populace can watch the mission’s progress. You will not be given these yourselves, because if one team is captured, the orcs will be able to use them to track down the others.’

  Rook snapped his fingers and the pyramid disappeared, leaving the room bathed in orange torchlight once again.

  ‘In order to allow you to fully focus on your mission, each team will require a demon to act as the conduit for these stones,’ Rook continued. ‘As such, we have asked for sponsors to volunteer their own demons. These sponsors will also provide your team with an expert guide, to help you find your way through the jungle. You will find out who your sponsors and guides are soon enough.’

  He clapped his hands and rubbed them together in anticipation.

  ‘Now, let’s all get into our respective groups. There are to be four teams of four, made up of three second-year students and one first-year volunteer. Volunteers, as soon as you set foot on this sand, there is no turning back …’

  He allowed his voice to trail off as he watched the small group of first years across the arena.

  ‘The captains have already been selected,’ Rook continued, unravelling a long scroll. ‘They stand before you right now.’

  Fletcher felt a flush of pride and nerves, the two emotions sitting uncomfortably in the pit of his stomach. He had been out of the game for so long, had barely spoken to anyone but Ignatius for an entire year … and that was a pretty one-sided conversation. Was he really ready to lead a team on a deadly mission?

  Rook cleared his throat, and Fletcher turned with baited breath to hear who his teammates would be.

  ‘After careful consideration from the king’s council and the teachers at the school, the teams are as follows. Please come and join your chosen captains as each name is called out.’

  He cleared his throat.

  ‘In Isadora’s team, we have Tarquin and Atlas. In Seraph’s team, Rory and Genevieve. In Malik’s team, Penelope and Rufus. In Fletcher’s team, Othello and Sylva.’

  Fletcher breathed a sigh of relief as the students leaped down into the arena, joining their respective teammates. Sylva flashed him a smile as she stood beside him, and Othello gave him a light punch on the arm.

  ‘Trust them to put a human in charge,’ Othello whispered, but he winked to show he didn’t really mind. ‘Looks like they arranged us by friendships.’

  ‘Agreed,’ Fletcher said happily. ‘Isadora’s looking pleased. I bet when Tarquin lost the Tournament to me she was deemed the stronger of the two.’

  As the rest of the students lined up, Fletcher saw four students left on the stands. Atilla, Cress and Didric, along with a dark-haired girl who Fletcher did not recognise. Rook swept his hand around the arena, pointing to each one.

  ‘You will now have the option to select a fourth member on to your teams from the first-year students who volunteered for the mission. Isadora, you have been randomly chosen to go first.’

  ‘Yeah right,’ Sylva murmured in Fletcher’s ear, and he suddenly became very aware of the soft touch of her hand on his waist. ‘Not that it matters. We both know who she’s going to pick.’

  ‘The valiant Didric Cavell,’ Isadora said, beckoning Didric over with a magnanimous hand. ‘After his brilliant performance in the Tournament, robbed of his victory by rotten luck.’

  ‘Luck had nothing to do with it,’ Cress called, ignoring Rook’s hiss of disapproval at her sp
eaking out of turn.

  Didric jumped down into the arena, staggering slightly with dizziness from what was probably a mild concussion. Tarquin shook his hand as Atlas and Isadora patted him on the back.

  ‘Now, Fletcher,’ Rook said, his eyes still on Cress, daring her to speak again.

  Fletcher blanched. For some reason, he had expected to go last.

  He paused, earning himself a glare from Atilla. It was obvious whose team the dwarf wished to join. Yet … Cress had just won the Tournament. She had requested, politely, to be part of his team. Then there was Atilla’s recent outburst against Cress’s choice of dress. Fletcher wanted his team to be a shining example to the world – of solidarity, friendship and acceptance.

  Atilla had a good heart and was a capable warrior, but Fletcher would not choose him, not for this. Now, he only needed a reason that Atilla would understand.

  ‘I choose Cress,’ he said, but held up his hand as Atilla began to protest. ‘Othello and Atilla’s parents would never forgive me, if their sons were in the one team that didn’t make it, both killed in a single stroke of misfortune. Better to spread the risk. The king’s army do not allow brothers to serve in the same regiment for that very reason.’

  Atilla bowed his head, then gave the curtest of nods.

  ‘I won the Tournament too, in case you forgot, Fletcher,’ Cress said loudly, already walking across the sand. ‘And it’s Cress Freyja, by the way.’

  ‘I had not forgotten,’ Fletcher whispered as she took her place beside them. ‘That is the other reason. Good to have you on board, Cress Freyja.’

  ‘Seraph, your turn,’ Rook said, turning his back on them.

  Seraph gave the dark-haired girl a sidelong look, but only for a moment.

  ‘Atilla Thorsager, of course. Come here, you grumpy bugger,’ Seraph said with a wide smile, beckoning the dwarf over. Atilla rolled his eyes as he walked down the steps, but there was a hint of a smile on his face. The two must have become closer while Fletcher was away.

  ‘And finally, Malik,’ Rook said.

  ‘I’m very happy to chose Verity Faversham,’ Malik said, smiling as the dark-haired girl walked into the torchlight. ‘I’m surprised she wasn’t picked first.’