The Summoner's Handbook

by Taran Matharu

  So I wait … or hide.

  The sounds of revelry outside haunt me. It shall be a long night.

  Day 253

  Lord Etherington is here! It seems in hiring me, he has abandoned his position as demonology teacher at the academy. I received a summons from a grizzled sergeant, who ducked into my tent without a word and handed me my orders. I have fixed the note here, for posterity.

  Lieutenant Baker,

  You are to report to the mustering ground of the Eighth Battalion at 1300 hours.

  Commander Etherington

  The sergeant took pity on me, his eyes widening in surprise as he took in my age. He offered to lead me to the mustering ground.

  Outside, the ground was muddy from a light drizzle from the night before, but there was a semblance of order now. Men marching back and forth, others lined up within the dark trench that lay directly in front of my tent, scattered with small stone and wood forts, their tops bristling with cannons.

  The trench was so deep as to have to step on a wooden stair built along its inside to see over the top. There, men stared out into a no - man’s-land, cleared out by fire. The ground was cratered and torn between it and the green of the jungle, ravaged by the explosions of shaman spells and the furrowing of cannonballs.

  I could see red uniforms strewn along the jungle edge. Corpses, too close to the enemy territory to warrant collecting. I forced myself to look, to take it all in. This was my new existence.

  The mustering ground was little more than a parcel of land squared off beside the tents by four long ropes. There, around three hundred men stood at attention, muskets with bayonets affixed held tight and upright against their shoulders.

  The officers were scattered among them, but fortunately the sergeant who had come to collect me motioned to a likely spot at the head of the parade to the far right. It seemed to me that the soldiers there were almost as young as I was. Younger in fact than the rest of the column, as if they had been selected specifically. Were these to be the men I commanded? It seemed so, for they eyed me with trepidation when I walked there.

  No sooner had I found my place than Lord Etherington emerged from his tent—one far larger than my own and filled with plush furs, if the glimpse I had of the interior was anything to go by.

  For some reason I had thought he would introduce me. But instead, he simply walked back and forth, stopping here and there to talk to the officers and inspect his men more closely.

  Finally, he dismissed us, and the sergeants bellowed orders as the men were sent to their duties. It seemed that most of what they did was related to rationing of food and firewood, maintaining of uniforms and filling in and digging new latrines. My own men were given the latter job, and the groans were clearly audible as the sergeant—who I now realized was the sergeant of my platoon—sent them scurrying in the direction of a foul stench somewhere to the north.

  I regretted acting so green around him, but he seemed kind enough. Then Lord Etherington approached me and we were alone together in the emptying mustering ground.

  “Settling in okay?” he asked, giving me a quick smile.

  “Well enough,” I replied.

  “Your first mission is tomorrow. We’ve been moving deeper into orc territory over the past few years, burning our way forward and digging new trenches. This used to be all jungle. There was an orc village here, a ways over there. Of course the soldiers tore most of it down before I got wind of it, and the flames burned the rest, but there’s a hut there that’s still intact. You’re to go investigate it.”

  “Why haven’t you done it?”

  He glared at me then.

  “What did I bring you here for? Can’t you get into your thick skull that I cannot show interest in studying those savages?”

  Of course. I bowed my head as he strode off.

  I looked around, but my men had gone, and there was nothing else to do. So here I am in my tent, dragging this entry out as long as possible.

  Tomorrow, my research begins.

  Day 254

  After muster this morning, my men were once again dispatched to latrine duty. The hut was derelict, and I could see the charred remains of those that had once surrounded it nearby. I was surprised it was still standing, and that the ribald soldiers some few hundred yards away had not destroyed it for firewood. It seemed that only one thing had kept them from doing so, that was obvious.

  It was the symbols daubed on the walls outside it. Superstition had kept the soldiers at bay, fear of some form of curse or trap. I had no such qualms, recognizing the symbols as the four primary battle spells, and ducked through the straw awning that still covered the entrance.

  The inside was made of primitive wooden boards, with a thatched roof that was falling through, allowing me some light as I examined the inside. The floor was made of flattened bamboo, and there was no furniture to speak of. There was not much to be seen.

  At first glance, that is.

  The walls. Someone, and I mean someone rather than something, had painted on the walls. An ocean, of startling detail. Above, I could see Ropen flying, strange, featherless bird demons with stretched membrane wings and elongated headrests. Of particular interest was that each one had a symbol written above it … a number. Orcs did not use numbers often, so theirs were a series of lines, crossed out when they reached five—rather like what prisoners scratched on the interiors of their cells. The symbol represented the number four; the Ropen’s summoning level.

  Then I saw it. Another creature, lying on an island painted on the wall. I did not recognize it, which meant this was a new demon entirely! Never heard of or seen before in all of Hominum’s history.

  Above it was the symbol for fifteen and farther still, orcish letters. In my studies at Vocans, I had been able to determine the pronunciation of orcish words, even if the language was still alien to me. These I had paid particular attention to, for if I was to learn anything from the orcs in my studies, I would need to learn their language.

  Here, it pronounced a two-syllable word: Akhlut. As for the demon itself, it was similar to the orca: a killer whale. I had never seen one in person, but the sailors who frequented the tavern had spoken of them in great detail.

  With the same white markings along its belly and around its eyes, and the enormous fluke tail behind it, the key difference was the four clawed legs curled beneath it. A land whale, and a ferocious one at that. No wonder it was level fifteen.

  Already I had learned something new, added to Hominum’s knowledge. It wasn’t a game changer by any means but … it was something. Proof perhaps that we could learn from the orcs.

  Alas, there was nothing more of use in the hut, except for what looked like the tattered remnants of a summoning leather, no different from our own but for the fur that still clung to one side of it.

  I stayed a while longer, more out of a desire to avoid another lonely day in my tent than from the belief that something else could be there. I even tried digging around in the ground with my spatha, but found nothing.

  So now I have returned, as the sun sets, and another night of raucous revelry begins outside.

  Day 260

  Lord Etherington is pleased. He wrote to Provost Scipio and told him of my discovery. Apparently Dame Fairhaven has added it to the official demonology on the Vocans curriculum, though apparently it annoyed the new teacher, somebody named Major Goodwin. The best part is, even Lord Etherington could not take credit for my discovery—he is too high and mighty to insinuate that he himself has been investigating orc ruins. I have to admit, it makes me feel like it’s all worthwhile … at least today.

  Day 267

  The days here are hard. It has been two weeks since Lord Etherington gave me something to investigate. So, I have been told to take control of my soldiers.

  There is not much to do. They resent me, and I do not blame them. Lord Etherington thought he did me a kindness by putting together a platoon of youngsters. But because they are young, they are given the worst j
obs. Latrine duty mostly, or digging trenches, collecting firewood. The other officers had agreed this the very first morning, and I am too fearful to object. These are full-fledged noble battlemages. How can I, a teenage commoner, stand up to them?

  I eat alone in the officers’ mess and feel lonelier than ever. To think, at least at Vocans the teachers would talk to me. Here, it is only Lord Etherington, and forced, polite conversations with my sergeant.

  Each morning I assign my soldiers their tasks, as if I had chosen them myself (when in truth, the task is handed to me by the captain). They glare at me and move on.

  I have begged Lord Etherington to be transferred to a different platoon, but he scoffs at me and tells me to grow a pair. I don’t know what he means by that.

  Day 285

  Electra has been sending me letters. It is a blessed relief to have someone to talk to, albeit via the medium of scrawled parchment. Sable delivers my letters to her overnight, flying my roll of parchment up to her tower and returning with her reply.

  She has been instructing me in the art of dissection. I have glued some of her diagrams of dissected demons to this page—the scraps of parchment are small, so that Sable can bear their weight.

  I cram as much writing as I can onto each of my replies, but it seems there is never enough space.

  Day 301

  The front lines have moved forward. The entire army fired a volley into the jungle, the sound like a thunderclap in the sky, the stench like rotten eggs as the sulphurous white smoke wafted behind the soldiers.

  Then they charged toward the jungle, leaping over the ramparts and taking up positions along the jungle edge. My lads were sent to start digging right away, along with a few other platoons. Meanwhile, the jungle was set aflame and more volleys were poured into its dark interior, for fear of orcs lurking within.

  As the work continued into the night, the entire forest seemed to become a hellscape as the red inferno stretched up into the sky. I leaped into the trenches with my men, and together we dug in the scorching heat that blew in from the jungle, sweating and swearing until we were coated in black mud and stared at one another through smoke-reddened eyes.

  Eventually the flames slowly burned themselves out, until the light drizzle finished them off. As we trudged our way back to the makeshift washrooms back at the camp, which was already being dismantled and moved up to our new front lines, the men looked at me with grudging respect. A noble officer would never lift a finger to do the men’s work, let alone sully their uniform digging trenches in the rain, heat and mud.

  As I walk by, another officer catches the chevrons on my shoulder and glares at me. I shrug and continue on. Fraternizing with the soldiers is not encouraged, nor is such unseemly behavior as what he had just witnessed. But the other officers already look down on me, and that will never change. As for my men … we shall see.

  Tomorrow, I shall join my men in latrine duty, and every other task from here on in.

  Day 302

  Clearing out the latrines is the worst. That is all.

  Day 310

  Sergeant Daniels, my sergeant, approves of what I am doing, though he is a little annoyed. Since I am mucking in with the men, it would be unseemly for him to stand to the side, so he has to join in too.

  And I have met another common summoner! His name is Arcturus. It’s strange that he only has one name. He introduced himself as Arcturus, but is also called Captain Arcturus by the other officers, as if it is his second name. Curious. We spoke only briefly, but he introduced me to a few other commoners, who I now sit with in the officers’ mess hall during mealtimes. I had not even thought to check if there were other commoners here—I assumed everyone was noble, for some strange reason. Almost all the commoners are second or first lieutenants, and one is even Arcturus’s brother. They are nice enough, but apparently rumors of my studying of the orcs have spread among the officers. The nobles think me a fool, while the commoners think me one whose unpopularity might rub off on them.

  Still, these few don’t seem to mind too much. Oh! It sure does feel good to have someone to talk to.

  Day 320

  There has been a battle. Not near my part of the front lines, thank heavens, but somewhere far down to the west, near Raleighshire. It happened just an hour ago, in the dead of night. The orcs charged the trenches and slaughtered half the men before the Celestial Corps arrived and fought them off.

  It is unclear how they reached the trenches without being mowed down by gunfire and shrapnel from the cannons. But that’s beside the point; there are battles every other night somewhere or other. The real reason I am telling you this is because there were shamans involved in this battle. Which means fresh demon corpses!

  Electra has her hands full studying plants—she has found an enterprising young summoner to bring them to her from the ether, and apparently the servant Jeffrey has been helping her. She thinks he might even become her apprentice someday.

  I must admit, I’m a little jealous.

  Anyway, the dead demons are being sent over. I shall begin my dissection tomorrow.

  Day 321

  It stank to high heavens, most likely for being left in the warm morning air too long. Lacking any work space or tools, I was forced to use my work desk and spatha in their stead. I needed privacy, as there were a dozen men standing outside, staring at the strange creature left for me in a wheelbarrow outside.

  So I performed the dissection within my tent. I really, really hope the smell will go away. As I write this, I have my nose plugged up with rags. The stench is quite potent.

  The demon was an Enenra—a shadow demon. Few summoners have ever captured one, and entries in the library about them were scant, if I recall. I must have read every book there, so it was pointless traveling back to research it anymore.

  Apparently, when seen in the wild, it appears as a smoky shadow, flowing through the air like a billowing cloud of pitch dark silk. In death, however, I cannot say it looks so impressive.

  It looked rather like a slimy, rumpled black sack. It reminded me of a cow’s afterbirth, and I confess I gagged as I stretched it out on the table.

  When flat, it was as large as a single bedsheet and similarly proportioned, though rounder at the edges. I cut the membrane carefully down its side and parted it, opening it up like a thin book. Within, slippery purple organs remained, strangely shallow but clearly what one could expect from a living creature—a heart, kidneys, even primitive lungs of a sort. But there was one organ that stood out from the rest.

  It was no larger than a chestnut, perfectly round and sitting at what would have been the Enenra’s center. Yet that was not what made it stand out. It was the symbol that adorned it, as if it had been painted there. It was almost invisible, for the symbol was a dark gray. But it was not a spell I recognized.

  Again, I have furthered Hominum’s knowledge. I wondered if this spell could change the fate of the war. Was it the source of the Enenra’s flight, perhaps?

  I could not resist. I etched the symbol in the air, my mouth dry, heart pounding. It was a complex symbol—it took me a few tries before the spell would fix to my finger.

  Then, I pushed a dribble of mana through.

  It was a strange sight. Darkness spread from my fingertip, flowing like black water around the room. Fascinated, I allowed more mana through, until I was drained of all.

  Even the stuttering candle on my bedpost could not resist the shadow’s insistent advance. Soon, the room was so dark that I could barely see the glowing symbol, even when I held it up to my face.

  Now I knew how the orcs had reached the trenches unseen. A powerful spell indeed.

  Day 340

  Lord Etherington is pleased with my progress, but he insists I focus on discovering the orc keys. I asked him how I can be expected to do that, stuck here on the front lines.

  I think my question annoyed him, because he summoned my commanding officer, Captain Bambridge, to his tent. There, he instructed the captain that I was
to accompany the next mission behind enemy lines, no matter how dangerous, and particularly if it is one that is likely to encounter the orcs.

  I cannot exactly say no, but this feels even more dangerous than if I hadn’t accepted Lord Etherington’s offer at all!

  It seems we rarely actually attack the orcs, and the picture Lord Etherington painted me of commoner second lieutenants being sent into battle over and over were greatly exaggerated.

  But I cannot just quit.

  I had not given it much thought when I joined the academy, but I remember now signing papers that inducted me into the army when I was given Sable. I had been so overjoyed at receiving her that I did not give it a second glance.

  That was when I sold my soul. The army owned me, now and forever.

  If I were to leave, it would be desertion. Short of faking my own death, there seems no way out. Perhaps I can gain a position as a teacher at the academy … or an assistant perhaps?

  I shall write to Provost Scipio and ask him.

  Day 345

  Provost Scipio’s reply is kind but firm. It seems I am not the first graduate to request to teach at the academy—often they are scared of their new positions in the army. He tells me they rotate teachers often, for their roles are coveted by most summoners. In fact, Lord Cavendish and Lady Sinclair will be leaving at the end of this year.

  So, I must do my time on the front lines before he would even consider it. And, he rebuked me gently, I am even younger than most students. It just isn’t possible.

  Day 353

  More demon dissections, but nothing new to report. Just added stink in my room and blood under my fingernails. I got lucky with the Enenra. After all, Electra has been dissecting every demon under the sun for years. Never mind. Onward!