Summoner: Book 1: The Novice (14 page)

Atlas had been lingering behind, a smile plastered across his face. His demon was the size of a large dog, with thick, bristling fur and two sharp incisors that jutted from the front of its mouth. It looked like an enormous, bucktoothed otter, but for a ratlike tail with a spiked ball on the end, in the shape of a morningstar. It was incredibly agile, almost flowing along the ground as it circled Atlas’s feet.

‘Mine is a Lutra. I called him Barb, after his tail!’

‘Barb,’ Arcturus remarked. ‘You might want to think a while on that. It is not a . . . traditional demon name. Why not Barbarous? I know of at least one other demon that goes by that name.’

‘Perfect!’ Atlas replied, sweeping the demon into his arms.

Captain Lovett had disappeared back inside the summoning room, but not before Fletcher glimpsed a flash of brown feathers as the door was closed shut. He wondered what it could be. It appeared that there were more species of demons available to Hominum’s summoners than he had thought.

As Arcturus took a breath to continue the lesson, Fletcher held up his hand. There was one thing he had to know.

‘Where is Sacharissa now, sir? And where are the nobles’ demons? Are they sitting in their rooms, waiting for them?’ he asked, his curiosity finally reaching a boiling point.

‘Do you know what infusion is?’ Arcturus asked, giving him a level look. Fletcher shook his head.

‘Infusion is when a summoner absorbs a demon into themselves, allowing them to heal and rest. The summoner can still communicate with their demon and even use mana, but it remains within them, out of way. When orc javelins are raining down around you, infusion is the best defence for your demon. You will learn how to do it in your summoning lesson with Captain Lovett tomorrow. I specialise in spellcraft, so it is not my place to teach you infusion. Is that answer enough?’

‘Yes, sir. Thank you.’

As Arcturus turned away and began etching another symbol in the air, Fletcher reached for his shoulder, stroking Ignatius. He could feel the flesh and bone beneath his fingertips. Infusion. He would believe that when he saw it.

25

The group was boisterous when they left their lesson, laughing and smiling as they made their way up the stairs. Fletcher, Othello and Seraph were the only ones who had been able to create wyrdlights; small but serviceable ones, that floated by their shoulders. The others had managed to project a thread of blue light, but were unable to find the focus to form the ball. In spite of this, their first taste of spellcraft had been exhilarating, and Rory and Genevieve were not the sort to be jealous of their friends. Even Atlas was rubbing Barbarous’s head with a happy smile plastered across his face.

‘I’m going to practise wyrdlight control in my room,’ Seraph announced as they reached their chambers. ‘I could push it about, but I’ll never keep it as still as Arcturus did!’

He disappeared into the boys’ chambers, Sliver following in his wake. There was no sign of Sylva, once again having disappeared. Fletcher was not sure why she had been allowed to skip the first lesson, but he was eager to make amends.

‘I wonder if we should have waited,’ Rory said in a morose voice, looking at Malachi in a different light.

‘I love Azura to bits, but I can’t help thinking that we are going to struggle now. If Arcturus finds it difficult to capture a new demon, what hope do we have?’ Genevieve mumbled in agreement. Fletcher could think of little to lighten their spirits, yet it was the usually taciturn Othello who spoke next.

‘You might not be able to capture a demon as powerful as a Barkling yet, but maybe you could capture another Mite. Living so close to the front lines, one hears things about the different kinds of battlemage. Some have one powerful demon that is difficult to control, whilst others have many smaller imps, as the orc shamans do. Would you not prefer to send a swarm of Mites at your enemies? You might even be able to send several Mites into the ether and use their combined strength to bring a more powerful demon back,’ Othello said, scratching his chin.

‘Hey, you’re right,’ Rory said, an enormous grin on his face. ‘Imagine a thousand little Malachis. That would be something to see!’

Seraph walked back into the room, brandishing a sheet of paper in one hand and a small cloth bag in the other.

‘Look at these!’ He displayed what turned out to be a timetable in front of them. ‘Just three all-day lessons a week after breakfast, with optional arms training in the basement on the fourth day. The rest is free study! We can do whatever we want for the rest of the time.’

Rory laughed and slapped the table, sending Malachi flying away with a reproachful buzz.

‘Whoops!’ Rory said, holding out his palm for the aggrieved insect to land on. He gave him a light kiss on its green carapace.

‘That’s not all! They paid us what’s left of our first month’s wages. Who needs university when you can join the military and get paid to study?’ Seraph said, jingling the bag. ‘There’s sixty shillings in here.’

‘I think a trip to Corcillum is in order!’ Genevieve exclaimed, her face lighting up with a bright smile. ‘That’s more than my mother earned in a month and she worked all day long. Let’s go after lunch.’

‘I could definitely do with visiting a tailor,’ Fletcher agreed, fingering the ragged hem of his shirt collar.

‘My family will be worried about me. I would welcome the chance to let them know I have . . . some friends here.’ Othello tugged at his beard shyly.

‘It’s agreed then. Who said that we wouldn’t have the coin to go to Corcillum? It will probably cost us an arm and a leg to get there, but it will be worth it,’ Seraph said, rushing back to his room.

Footsteps echoed on the stairs behind them, followed by the sound of voices.

‘Who could that be?’ Fletcher wondered out loud.

‘So you see . . . they’ve stuck me in with the commoners when my blood is as pure as yours. It’s an absolute disgrace! I’m sure if you talk to the Provost on my behalf I can move in next to you.’ It was Sylva, followed by Isadora and the other noble girl.

‘Ugh, this place is smaller than my bathroom,’ Isadora sniffed, wrinkling her perfect nose as if she could smell something foul in the room.

‘I know! You should see my bedroom. Let me show you,’ Sylva said, trying to drag Isadora towards the girls’ quarters. Isadora stopped and looked at the group, narrowing her eyes when they settled on Othello.

‘Hang on,’ she said, stamping a delicate foot. ‘It’s time I told these commoners how things are going to go down this year.’

Isadora stalked around them like a mountain lion on the hunt. She exuded an easy confidence that put Fletcher on edge.

‘Here’s what’s going to happen. You commoners are going to keep your heads down and not give the nobles any trouble. When it comes to the tournament this year, you will all bow out in the first round and let your betters take their rightful places. After all, it is our taxes that fund the King’s army and then we pay for our own noble battalions. It’s only fair that we lead the soldiers that our families pay for. You have no right and no chance of becoming a senior officer. You just don’t have the breeding. So stay out of our way and we might just let one of you serve as our lieutenant. Sound good?’ She smiled sweetly when she had finished speaking, as if she had just paid them a compliment. Fletcher was the first to speak.

‘Sounds like you’re scared of a little competition,’ he said, stretching with exaggerated nonchalance. The others remained silent, wondering what the girl would do next. Isadora pouted like a spoiled child, a strange contrast to the self-assured she-devil of just moments ago.

‘Rare does not equal powerful. Remember that, Fletcher,’ she hissed in his ear.

As she straightened, Seraph came back into the room and smiled at the sight of the girls.

‘Lovely, nobody told me we had guests. Welcome to our humble abode! We haven’t been introduced. I’m Seraph Pasha.’

Isadora gave him a look of pure disgust, and then strode off down the stairs, ignoring Sylva, who was halfway to her room. The elf glared at Fletcher as if he were at fault, then rushed after her. The brunette stood indecisively in the stairwell, biting her lip at Seraph, whose face was a picture of incredulity.

‘I’m sorry about that,’ she said in an almost imperceptible voice.

‘Come on, Penelope!’ Isadora’s voice shouted from below. The girl turned and left, the back of her neck flushed red.

‘Nice to meet you,’ Rory called, as she disappeared from sight.

‘What the hell was all that about?’ Seraph asked, slumping into a chair.

‘She was feeling us out, wanted to see if we were pushovers. Guess she was wrong,’ Othello said, his fists clenched with anger.

‘What is Sylva doing cosying up to the nobles?’ Genevieve asked, equally distressed.

‘I guess as a chieftain’s daughter she considers herself a noble too,’ Fletcher said, the half-formed apology now gone from his thoughts. Although Isadora and Tarquin seemed to be the source of all the noble superiority so far as he could see, the fact that Sylva had jumped on that bandwagon did not place her in his good graces.

‘Come on, get your stuff together – let’s skip lunch and go to Corcillum now,’ Fletcher said.

‘Good thinking. I’ve lost my appetite,’ Othello replied, shaking his head with disappointment.

26

A carriage to Corcillum would have cost an extortionate six shillings per person, but Othello knew of a town a bit further down the main road that might be cheaper. Half an hour’s walk and another ten minutes of negotiation later and the group had found transport on the back of a horse-drawn cart for one shilling each. They purchased a basket of apples for another shilling and munched into them, enjoying the sweet tartness. Even the shower that beat down on them could not dampen their spirits as they laughed and tried to catch the raindrops in their mouths. Atlas’s Lutra enjoyed the rain the most, yapping and rolling on the wet boards of the cart.

They were dropped on the main road, which was thronging with vendors and customers despite the downpour. As they huddled in a street corner, people stared at their demons and uniforms, some smiling and waving, others hurrying past with fear in their eyes.

‘I want to go to the perfumery,’ Genevieve said, as two girls walked by under pink parasols. They wafted an exotic fragrance that reminded Fletcher of the mountains. His stomach twisted as he realised how little he had thought of Berdon over the past few days. He needed to get in contact to let him know everything was OK.

‘I need to run some errands, send some messages, that sort of thing. Othello, do you know someone who might be able to make a scabbard for my sword?’ Fletcher asked.

‘Sure . . . as long as you don’t mind stopping by my family home on the way,’ the dwarf replied, tugging on his beard in excitement.

‘Why not? I haven’t been to the Dwarven Quarter yet. Are there tailors there too?’ Fletcher asked.

‘The best in Hominum,’ Othello said firmly.

‘Well, someone has to come with me to the perfumery. I can’t go alone,’ Genevieve wheedled as more young ladies walked past. Seraph’s eyes lit up at the sight of them, and he volunteered without hesitation.

‘I’ll go. Perhaps there is some cologne that will help me melt Isadora’s cold heart,’ he said with a wink.

‘Rory? Are you with us or them?’ Fletcher asked.

‘I think I’ll go with Genevieve. It would be interesting to see what they do with all the flowers. My mother collects mountain flowers and sells them to perfume merchants,’ Rory said, with a sidelong look at the pretty girls walking by. Fletcher was sure Rory’s motive was based on more than the art of scent making, but he didn’t blame him. It was only two days ago that he had been awestruck by the beauty of Corcillum’s girls and their painted faces. Atlas had already begun to wander down the street, but Fletcher assumed he would not want to come with them to the Dwarven Quarter, given his animosity towards Othello.

‘Meet back here in about two hours. There’s plenty of carts on their way to the front lines along that road, so just leave if the other group is late,’ Othello called.

They parted ways and increased their pace as the downpour intensified, ducking under the awnings in front of shops and keeping close to the walls. Ignatius purred in the dry warmth beneath Fletcher’s hood while Solomon followed several feet behind, struggling to keep up on his stumpy legs. The dwarf had the foresight to bring a hooded jacket of his own, but poor Solomon looked miserable in the wet.

‘So what do you need other than a tailor and the blacksmith? Did I hear you need to send a letter?’ Othello asked, looking over his shoulder to make sure Solomon was still in sight. As Othello threaded his way through the narrow alleyways, Fletcher realised that the dwarf would be the perfect guide to help him make the best of their trip to Corcillum.

‘Yes, I need to send a letter to the elven front,’ Fletcher said. It would be best not to send anything directly to Berdon in case Caspar or Didric intercepted it. Maybe if he sent it to Rotherham, then the soldier could pass on the message in secret.

‘Well, if that’s the case you’d be best sending it from Vocans. The military couriers stop by there all the time. As for the blacksmith, trust me when I say he is the best. He designed this for me.’

Othello paused and opened the leather pouch he carried on his shoulder and pulled a hatchet from inside. The handle was made of black, fire-hardened wood and painstakingly carved to conform to the shape of Othello’s hand. The axe head was thin but devastatingly sharp, with a keen blade coming from the back that made for a lethal backswing.

‘This is a dwarven tomahawk. Every dwarf is given one on their fifteenth birthday, to protect them in their adulthood. It was decreed by the first of our holy elders that all adult male dwarves must carry one at all times, ever since our persecution began two thousand years ago. Even our female dwarves own a torq, a spiked bangle that is carried at all times on the wrist. It is considered part of our tradition, heritage and religion. Now you know the high esteem I hold for the blacksmith’s skill.’

Fletcher’s eyes widened as he saw the beautiful weapon.

‘Can I hold it?’ Fletcher asked, eager to try the axe for himself. Perhaps he would have the same carved handle added to his khopesh.

There was a high pitched whistle and the sound of running feet. Two Pinkertons were sprinting towards them, studded truncheons drawn and pistols levelled at Othello’s face.

‘Drop it! Now!’

The first Pinkerton took Othello by the throat, lifted him off his feet and pushed him up against a brick wall. He was a huge brute of a man, with a bristling black beard that covered an ugly, pockmarked face. Othello’s tomahawk clattered to the ground as he struggled to breathe against the sausage-like fingers constricting his windpipe.

‘What have we told you dwarves about carrying weapons in public? Why can’t you get it through your thick, dwarven skulls? Only humans have that privilege!’ the second Pinkerton said in a reedy voice. He was a tall, skinny man with a pencil moustache and greasy blond hair.

‘Let him go!’ Fletcher shouted, finding his voice. He stepped forward as Ignatius dropped to the ground, hissing viciously. The demon blew a warning plume of flame into the air.

‘Release him, Turner,’ the thin Pinkerton said, registering the danger and rapping his truncheon against the wall.

‘All right, Sergeant Murphy, we’ll have more fun with him in the cells anyway,’ the large man grunted, releasing Othello to leave him wheezing on the street cobbles. He gave the dwarf a sharp kick in the side, making Othello cry out in pain. As he did so, an unearthly roar blasted from behind Fletcher.

‘No!’ Othello gasped, holding his hand up as Solomon pelted round the corner, stopping the Golem just a few feet short of Turner. ‘No, Solomon, it’s OK!’

The dwarf stood with difficulty, leaning against the wall.

‘Are you all right?’ Fletcher asked as the Golem rushed to his master, rumbling with worry.

‘I’m fine. They’ve done worse before,’ the dwarf croaked, patting the Golem on the head.

Fletcher spun and scowled at the Pinkertons, his hand straying towards his khopesh.

Murphy stepped in and prodded him in the chest.

‘As for you, you can wipe that look from your face,’ Sergeant Murphy growled, lifting Fletcher’s chin with his truncheon. ‘Why are you defending a dwarf anyway? You want to be more careful who you make friends with.’

‘I think you should be more worried about trying to arrest an officer of the King’s army for carrying a weapon! Or did you expect him to fight the orcs with his bare hands?’ Fletcher said with confidence he did not feel. Turner was swinging his truncheon back and forth.

‘Who are you to tell me what I can and can’t do?’ Murphy, pointed his pistol at Fletcher’s face. There was nothing that Ignatius was going to be able to do against a bullet. Fletcher weighed the odds of being able to perform a shield spell on his first try, but decided against it. Better to take a beating than risk death. He cursed under his breath; this was the second time he had found himself cornered in the streets of Corcillum with a pistol in his face.

‘What did you just say? I think he just swore at you, Sergeant Murphy,’ Turner growled, raising his own pistol.

‘Nothing! I was just cursing my luck,’ Fletcher stammered. The two barrels were like a pair of snakes’ eyes, ready to strike.

‘You have no idea who you’re messing with,’ Othello growled, straightening with a wince. ‘You’d better put those pistols down and get the hell out of here.’

‘Enough, Othello!’ Fletcher hissed. The dwarf must have gone mad! It was easy for him to be cocky, he wasn’t the one staring down two gun barrels!

‘Just wait till we tell his father about you. Lord Forsyth will be very displeased to find out that some low-level Pinkertons held his son Tarquin at gunpoint,’ Othello continued, unbuttoning his jacket to show the uniform underneath. Fletcher tried not to look too surprised, but inside he was horrified at the gamble the dwarf was taking. Even so, it was too late now. Then Fletcher detected a hint of hesitation in Murphy’s face.

‘Of course, you are aware of the dwarven battalions forming on the elven front. If the Forsyths have to incorporate one of them into our forces, we will want the best dwarf officers available,’ Fletcher said in a confident voice, pushing Turner’s pistol away from his face. ‘Now I find you assaulting our newest officer in the street, for carrying a weapon that Zacharias Forsyth himself gave him? What are your names? Murphy? Turner?’

Murphy’s pistol wavered, then lowered to the ground.

‘You don’t speak like a noble,’ Murphy challenged, his eyes focussing on the ragged hem of Fletcher’s uniform trousers. ‘Nor do you dress like one.’

‘Your uniform would look like this too if you were fighting on the front lines. As for my voice, if you grew up amongst the common soldiers, your language would be as coarse as mine. We can’t all be fancy boys like you.’ Fletcher was getting in the swing of it now, but Othello prodded him in the small of his back. He reined it in, worried he had gone too far.

‘Now, if you will excuse me, I will be on my way. Ignatius, come!’ Fletcher said, scooping Ignatius into his arms and striding off down the street. He didn’t look back, but heard the click of a pistol’s flint being pulled.

‘Keep walking,’ Othello whispered from behind him. ‘They’re testing us.’

Fletcher continued onwards, every second imagining a bullet was going to come bursting through his chest. The moment they rounded the corner they ran down the street, Solomon just managing to keep up with his stubby legs.

‘You’re a genius,’ Fletcher gasped, when they were a safe distance away.

‘Don’t thank me just yet. Next time they see you, they will probably beat you to a pulp. They won’t be able to tell who I am, all dwarves look the same to them. I’ve been arrested twice before by that pair and they didn’t even recognise me,’ Othello wheezed, clutching his injured side. ‘I think they might have cracked a rib though.’

‘The sadistic brutes! We need to get you to a doctor. Don’t worry about me. My hood was up, and it was dark. As long as they don’t see Ignatius and Solomon next time our paths cross, we should be OK. We’ll need to learn how to infuse our demons straight away. Shield spells too, for that matter,’ Fletcher said.

‘Too right. Come on, let’s go. The Dwarven Quarter is not far from here. My mother should be able to bind my chest.’ Solomon gave a throaty groan as they set off once again. Clearly, he was not used to this much exercise.

‘I’m going to need to get you into shape,’ Othello chided, pausing to rub the Golem’s craggy head.

They walked on, the streets getting narrower and filthier. Clearly the cleaners no longer bothered to come this way, not with the Dwarven Quarter so close. The dwarves must have been allocated the worst part of the city to live in.

‘Why were you arrested before?’ Fletcher asked, stepping over a tramp who was sleeping in the middle of the street.

‘My father refused to pay the protection money the Pinkertons asked of him. Every dwarf business gets turned over by their officers, but those two are the worst. They threw me in the cells both times, until my father paid up.’

‘That’s insane! How can they get away with that?’ Fletcher asked. Othello walked on in silence and Fletcher kicked himself. What a stupid question.

‘What does your father do? Is he a blacksmith? My father was a blacksmith,’ Fletcher said, trying to fill the awkward silence he had created.

‘My father is one of the artificers who developed the musket,’ Othello said with pride. ‘Now that we hold the secret to their creation, the Pinkertons tend to not bother the dwarven blacksmiths. I can’t say that for all dwarf businesses though. The creation of the musket was the first step in the long journey to equality. Our joining the army is the second. I will finish what my father started.’

‘You must be the first dwarf officer in Hominum, even if you are just a cadet at the moment. That is something to be proud of,’ Fletcher said.

He meant every word; the more he found out about the dwarves, the more he respected them. He endeavoured to emulate their resolve to better their situation.

Othello stopped and pointed ahead of him.

‘Welcome to the Dwarven Quarter.’