Summoner: Book 1: The Novice (10 page)

18

Fletcher pushed the door open to find a short corridor with a row of doors on either side. The door slammed shut behind him as a draught came gusting in from a loophole at the very end of the passageway. He frowned at the sight of it; it was going to be a long, cold winter if this kept up.

He heard movement from the nearest room and knocked, hoping he was not waking them. The door opened at his touch; perhaps the wind had blown it ajar.

‘Hello?’ he asked, pushing it open.

Suddenly he was on his back, slavering teeth snapping at him as a heavy weight held him down. He managed to grip the creature by its throat, but it took all his strength to keep the fangs from closing on his neck. As saliva dripped on to his face, Fletcher’s imp clawed across the monster’s muzzle with a screech, but all that did was cause the creature to yawp in pain with each gnash of its teeth.

‘Down, Sariel! He has learned his lesson,’ came a lilting voice from above. Immediately the creature stopped its attack and sat back on Fletcher’s chest. Still helpless, Fletcher gazed up at it, seeing a Canid almost as large as Sacharissa; the size of a small pony. Yet where Sacharissa had wiry, black fur, this demon’s hair was as blond and curling as a Corcillum lady’s ringlets. Its snout was longer and more refined, with a wet black nose that sniffed at him.

‘Get it off me!’ Fletcher managed to gasp through gritted teeth. It felt like a tree had fallen on him and was crushing his chest.

The creature stepped off and sat panting behind the door, its four malevolent eyes still fixed on Fletcher’s face.

‘I shall be writing to the clan chieftains about this! Put with the commoners in a room smaller and less comfortable than a jail cell, which of course is broken into by a young ruffian on the first morning. I had thought when they gave me Sariel that they were taking our peace talks seriously. Now I know I was mistaken,’ the voice railed, full of bitterness and anger.

Fletcher sat up and looked at the speaker, dazed as the blood rushed back to his head. His eyes widened as he saw long diamond shaped ears that cut through silvery hair. A delicate face looked at him through large eyes that were the colour of a clear blue sky. They were filled with distrust and almost looked on the verge of tears. Fletcher was talking to a pale elfish girl, dressed in a lacy nightgown.

He averted his eyes and turned away, speaking up in his defence. ‘Steady on. I was only trying to say hello. I didn’t mean to frighten you.’

‘
Frighten
me? I’m not frightened; I’m angry! Didn’t anyone tell you that these are the girls’ quarters? You’re not allowed in here!’ the elf screeched like a banshee, and slammed the door in Fletcher’s face. He cursed at his stupidity.

‘You moron,’ he muttered to himself.

‘That didn’t sound like it went very well,’ Rory said from behind him, a sympathetic look on his face as he poked his head through the common-room door. Fletcher felt a fool.

‘Why didn’t you tell me these were the girls’ quarters?’ Fletcher snapped, his face reddening as he stormed back into the main chamber.

‘I didn’t know, honest! I guess it makes sense though, now that I think about it, with Genevieve in this bit and there being a spare room next door . . .’ Rory trailed behind him.

‘It’s fine. Just make sure you smarten up before teaching starts, or you’ll embarrass us in front of the nobles,’ Fletcher said, then regretted it. Rory’s cheerful expression faded, and Fletcher took a deep breath.

‘I’m sorry. You’re not to blame. It’s not every day you get a Canid trying to tear your throat out.’ He forced a smile and patted Rory on the back. ‘You were saying something about a spare room?’

‘Sure! Since you’re the last here, all the best rooms have gone. I had a look when I moved in; it’s not great.’

They walked into an almost identical corridor, except for an extra door that had been built at the very end. It looked like an afterthought, more a glorified broom cupboard than anything else.

But the inside was more spacious than Fletcher had hoped for, with a comfortable-looking bed, a large wardrobe and a small writing desk. He grimaced at the open loophole in the wall; he was going to have to stuff it later. There was a uniform folded up on the end of the bed; a navy coloured double-breasted jacket with matching trousers. Fletcher shook it out and groaned. It was threadbare and torn, the brass buttons hanging so loosely that one dangled an inch beneath where it was supposed to be.

‘Don’t worry. I’ll take a look at it for you after breakfast. My mother was a seamstress,’ Genevieve said from the doorway.

‘Thanks,’ Fletcher said, though he wasn’t sure how salvageable it was.

‘So what was she like?’ Genevieve asked, her eyes flashing with curiosity. ‘Is she a southerner like me?’

‘She’s . . . I’m not sure exactly,’ Fletcher said, avoiding the question. Now that he had ruined the girl’s morning, he didn’t want to start gossiping about her as well. Best to let her present herself to the others in her own way. His mind was still reeling from the presence of an elf at the academy. Weren’t they the enemy?

His thoughts were interrupted by the emergence of the imp, who tumbled from his hood to inspect their new abode. The little demon brushed the uniform on to the floor with a flick of its tail, then hummed with content as it rolled on to its back and scratched itself against the rough fabric of the bed covers. Rory’s eyes widened at the sight and Fletcher smiled to himself.

‘What’s a Canid?’ Rory pondered aloud as they walked back into the main chamber. They were soon followed by the imp, who clambered on to Fletcher’s shoulder and surveyed their surroundings with a protective glare.

‘You’ll find out soon enough. They aren’t easy to describe. If your Mites are beetle-demons then I would say a Canid is a dog-demon, if that makes sense,’ Fletcher replied proudly, glad to finally know more about summoning than someone else.

‘Our demons are called Mites?’ Genevieve asked, holding out a palm and letting her blue beetle settle on her hand.

‘I’m not sure; I heard the Provost use the word,’ Fletcher replied, sitting down at the table.

‘Oh well, I just call mine Malachi. Like malachite. You know, because of his colouring,’ Rory said, letting the green beetle scuttle up his arm.

‘Mine is called Azura,’ Genevieve declared, holding the demon to one of the torchlights so that Fletcher could see the cerulean blue of the creature’s carapace. Fletcher paused, feeling awkward as they looked at him expectantly.

‘What’s yours called?’ Rory prompted, as if Fletcher was slow.

‘I . . . I haven’t really had a chance to name him yet,’ Fletcher muttered with embarrassment. ‘I know he is a Salamander demon, though. Maybe you can help me think up a name over breakfast.’

‘Of course! He’s got a lovely colour to him; I’m sure we can think of something,’ Rory exclaimed.

‘Could we stay away from colours?’ Fletcher said, hoping to come up with something more original. ‘He’s a fire demon. Maybe we can use that.’

As Rory began to answer, a stern-looking matron walked into the room with a heavy basket of sheets and linens.

‘Be off with you! I need to clean. You can wait downstairs with the others instead of getting into mischief up here,’ she scolded, shooing them down the stairs.

‘Shouldn’t we tell the other two?’ Genevieve looked back up as they tramped down the winding staircase.

‘No,’ Fletcher blurted, hoping to avoid the elf for at least another few minutes. ‘The matron will let them know when she gets to their rooms.’

They shrugged and led him the long way down the corridor, making suggestions for names. Fletcher’s imp went back to sleep with a yawn, oblivious to the debate. Fletcher was starting to wonder whether he was allowing the demon to be lazy, as he watched Malachi and Azura zipping around their owners’ heads.

They eventually reached the ground floor and Fletcher was led through the atrium, mouthing an apology at Jeffrey, who was still polishing the floor they were treading on. The boy rolled his eyes with a sad smile and went back to his work.

They walked through the set of large double doors opposite the main entrance across the atrium. This room’s ceiling was substantially lower, yet it was still a huge space that echoed with their footsteps. Large, unlit chandeliers hung at intervals above three rows of long stone tables and benches. The centre of the room was dominated by a statue of a bearded man dressed in elaborate armour, carved with startling attention to detail.

Fletcher was surprised to find only two boys sitting there, spooning porridge into their mouths with gusto. One had black hair and olive skin; he must have been from a village on the border of the Akhad Desert in eastern Hominum. He was handsome, with a chiselled jaw and lively eyes that were hooded with long lashes.

The other boy was chubby, with closely cropped brown hair and a hearty red face. Both waved at him as a servant handed him a tray of porridge, jam and warm bread. When he sat they immediately introduced themselves; the fatter boy was called Atlas and the other Seraph.

‘Is it just you two? Where are the second years?’ Fletcher asked, confused.

‘We eat before they do, thank heavens!’ Atlas mumbled, abandoning his spoon to slurp the porridge up from the edge of the bowl.

‘They need their extra sleep, what with the stress of their more . . . practical lessons,’ Seraph explained, looking at Atlas with a bemused expression. ‘They even have field trips to the frontier once a week. I can’t wait to be in their shoes.’

‘Wait until you’ve been there,’ Genevieve muttered, a hint of sadness in her voice, Fletcher noticed. He knew enough about the front lines to sense that she might have lost someone close to her. Perhaps she was an orphan, like him.

‘Where are your demons?’ Fletcher changed the subject. ‘Have you got Mites like the others?’ He was desperate to see more demons.

‘No, none yet,’ Atlas said with a hint of jealousy. ‘We’re still waiting. They said the teachers would be giving us ours tomorrow. They only had two demons on the day we all arrived.’

‘It was the smart move,’ Seraph said, half to himself. ‘They asked me if I wanted to take one of the Mites or wait. I did my homework, asked some of the servants. Mites are the weakest. It’s better to wait for the chance of a bigger prize.’

Fletcher was intrigued by the mention of better demons. He tried to remember what he had glimpsed in the paintings and carvings around the castle. If only Jeffrey hadn’t been in such a hurry. Still, there would be plenty of time for that later.

‘I wouldn’t have it any other way,’ Rory replied, defensive. ‘I wouldn’t trade Malachi for anything.’

Seraph held his hands up in surrender. ‘I meant no offence. I am sure I will feel the same way about my demon when I eventually receive it, Mite or no Mite.’

Rory grunted and went back to his meal.

‘What other kinds of demons do you know of? I’ve only heard of four,’ Fletcher asked Seraph, who seemed to know the most in the group. But before the handsome boy could answer there was a gasp from Atlas. The fat cadet was staring at the door. Fletcher turned and saw what had caused it. A dwarf had entered the room . . . and he had a demon with him.

19

The dwarf looked very much like Athol had, with a dark red beard and a powerful, stocky body. He glared at them from beneath his bushy eyebrows and then took a tray from a nervous servant’s hands. He sat away from the group on another table, turning his back on them. Though Fletcher was sure that the dwarf was the source of everyone else’s fascination, he was more interested in the demon that had trailed in behind him.

At three feet high, the creature was shaped much like a young child, were it not for its squat profile and hefty arms and legs. Yet what was most fascinating was its colouring. The creature looked as if it was made from misshapen rock, the effect made more striking by a dusting of moss and lichen that grew on its surface. Its hands were like mittens, with a thick opposable thumb that could be used for grasping. With every movement it made, Fletcher could hear the dull rasp of stone against stone.

As the commoners gawked at it, the demon turned around and looked back through a pair of small black eyes that were set deep in its head.

‘A Golem! Those are difficult to capture. The servants said they grow over time, so you have to catch them young,’ Seraph whispered. ‘I hope I get gifted one of them.’

‘Not likely,’ Atlas said. ‘They must have given it to him as a favour to the Dwarven Council, a show of good faith as dwarves are incorporated into the army. I didn’t realise they had been accepted into all branches of the military. God knows what they would ride if any join the cavalry; their little legs would barely be able to grip a horse’s sides!’

Atlas laughed at the thought. Fletcher ignored him, looking at the dwarf sitting hunched and alone. He stood up.

‘What are you doing?’ Rory hissed, snatching at Fletcher’s sleeve.

‘I’m going to introduce myself,’ Fletcher said.

‘Did you see the look he gave us? I think he wants to be left alone,’ Genevieve stammered.

Fletcher pulled out of Rory’s grasp, ignoring them. He had recognised the look of resentment on the dwarf’s face when he walked in. He himself had worn it many times before, back when he had been ostracised by the other village children in Pelt.

As he approached the bench the Golem rumbled threateningly, its craggy face opening to reveal a toothless mouth. The dwarf turned at the noise, a look of apprehension on his face.

‘I’m Fletcher.’ He held out his hand for the dwarf to shake.

‘Othello. What do you want?’ the dwarf replied, ignoring it.

‘Nice to meet you. Why don’t you sit with us? There’s plenty of room,’ Fletcher asked. The dwarf looked at the others, who were staring at them from the other table, their faces full of apprehension.

‘I’m fine here. Thank you for making the effort, but I know I’m not welcome,’ the sullen dwarf muttered, turning back to his meal. Fletcher decided to make one last attempt.

‘Of course you are! You’re going to be fighting the orcs just like the rest of us.’

‘You don’t understand. I’m nothing more than a symbolic gesture. Hominum’s generals don’t mean to let us join the military for real. They sent most of our recruits to the elven front to rot with the chaffed. The King meant well by forcing them to let us join, but the generals are still the ones who decide what to do with us. How can we change their minds when they won’t let us fight?’ Othello murmured, so only Fletcher could hear.

‘Vocans has girls, commoners too. In fact, everyone you see here is a commoner. The nobles are arriving tomorrow,’ Fletcher replied, his heart going out to the unhappy dwarf. He paused for a moment, then leaned closer to the dwarf and whispered.

‘They need adepts, no matter where they come from. There’s even an elf! I don’t think the battlemage division is very picky, as long as you can fight.’

The dwarf smiled at him sadly, then took Fletcher’s hand and shook it.

‘I know about the elf. We had an . . . interesting conversation when we were waiting to be gifted our demons. Anyway, I hope you’re right. I’m sorry for my rudeness earlier; I must sound very jaded,’ Othello said, picking up his tray.

‘Not to worry. I met another dwarf yesterday and he felt much the same as you did. He gave me something,’ Fletcher said, pulling the card he had been given from his pocket.

‘Put that away!’ Othello hissed under his breath as soon as he saw it. Fletcher stuffed it back in his trousers. What was the big deal?

They sat down at the table with the others, their conversation suddenly muffled by the dwarf’s presence. Fletcher introduced them all.

‘Good morning,’ Othello said awkwardly, nodding to everyone. They all nodded back in silence. After a few beats Rory piped up. It seemed to Fletcher that he hated awkward silences.

‘I’ll tell you what, I wish I could grow a moustache like that. Did you always have one?’ Rory said, stroking his own bare face.

‘If you’re asking if I was born with it, no,’ Othello said, cracking a wry smile. ‘It’s our belief that cutting our hair is a sin to the Creator. We are made just as he wished us to be. If he gave us hair, then we must keep it.’

‘Why don’t you let your nails grow too then? Sounds like madness to me,’ Atlas said bluntly, pointing at Othello’s stubby but neatly trimmed fingers.

‘Atlas!’ Genevieve scolded.

‘That’s OK, it’s a fair question. We consider the white part of the nail dead and therefore no longer part of us. Of course it is considered more of a tradition than a religious belief these days: many dwarves trim their beards and hair; some of the younger dwarves even dye it. This is quite common knowledge in Corcillum. Where do you hail from?’ Othello asked in a measured voice.

‘I’m from a village to the west, close by the Vesanian Sea,’ Atlas retorted. ‘Are you from Corcillum originally?’

Othello paused, looking bemused. Seraph answered for him.

‘The dwarves were here before the first man even set foot in this land. They cleared the forests, flattened the earth, diverted the rivers, even put up the great marker stones that map out Hominum’s territory.’

Othello smiled, as if impressed by the young commoner’s knowledge of his people.

‘Mankind moved here two thousand years ago, when they made the long journey across the Akhad Desert.’ Seraph continued, encouraged by the rapt attention of the others. ‘Corcillum was the dwarf capital, so we moved in with them, working and trading. But then a great sickness swept through the city, hitting the dwarves particularly hard. Soon after, our first King took power, with help from what now are the noble families. They were a small group of summoners who controlled powerful demons, far stronger than the demons our modern day summoners control. That is why every royal and noble-born is able to summon; they inherited their ancestors’ abilities.’

‘It is also why we rebelled so often,’ Othello said in a hushed tone. ‘Foolish though it was, with our population so low and no summoners in our ranks. We never recovered our numbers after the sickness, thanks to a law forced on us by your King’s forefathers. We must live in the ghetto and may only have a certain number of children each year. We cannot even own our own land. The royals said we have brought it on ourselves after so many rebellions.’

A sombre mood settled over the others, but Fletcher felt angry, the same anger he had felt at Didric’s injustice. This was . . . inhumane! The hypocrisy of the situation sickened him. So this was what Athol had been talking about. Atlas opened his mouth to speak again, a look of disagreement on his face.

‘So, Seraph, you said you have done your research. Tell us a bit about what we should be expecting over the next few months,’ Fletcher interjected, before Atlas could start an argument.

Seraph leaned forward and beckoned everyone closer, smiling at the opportunity to show off what he had learned.

‘They are very fair here. Commissions are given based on merit, so the better you perform in the exams and challenges, the higher the officer’s rank you are given when you graduate. The problem is that it is weighted against us commoners. The demons we get given are not particularly strong, whilst the demons the nobles receive are from their parents, who take more care to capture powerful ones for their children. Some are even fortunate enough to be given one of their parent’s main demons, but that is rare. Fletcher’s demon I’m not so sure about – I’ve never seen one of those before. But, Othello, your demon will be very powerful when it is full grown, from what I have heard of Golems.’

‘So . . . we’re always going to only have our Mites?’ Genevieve asked, confused.

‘Not necessarily,’ Seraph answered. ‘It’s possible to capture another, more powerful demon in the ether, and add it to your roster. I don’t know much about how to do that, and apparently it is harder and riskier to do it with a weak demon. I’m hoping for something other than a Mite. They make great scouts and their pincers pack a nasty punch, but their mana levels are quite low and physically they would be no match for even a juvenile Canid.’

‘I see,’ Genevieve said, looking slightly less proudly at Azura as she took off and buzzed around the room. They all watched as she settled on the huge statue in the centre of the hall, crawling on to the stone man’s eye.

‘Who is that anyway?’ Fletcher asked the table.

‘I know,’ Othello said, pointing at the plaque beneath the statue. ‘It is Ignatius, King Corwin’s right-hand man and the founder of Vocans Academy, back when it was nothing more than a tent in a field. He died in the First Orc War a couple of thousand years ago, but he is credited with leading the charge that broke the orc ranks and ultimately led to their defeat.’

‘That’s it,’ Fletcher said under his breath, looking at his imp. It had crawled down his arm and was licking at the remains of the porridge in his bowl with relish.

‘What’s it?’ Rory asked.

‘Ignatius. That’s what I will call my demon.’