Summoner: Book 1: The Novice (4 page)

6

The day went by excruciatingly slowly. Berdon was having a busy day, but the acrid stench of burning hooves was beginning to become unbearable. Every few minutes a soft pile of horse manure tumbled to the ground behind him, adding to the existing odour. There had only been one sale that day: a small dagger sold to a merchant who had decided to cut his haggling short to get away from the smell, producing a small windfall of twelve silver shillings.

The soldier across the road had not been as vocal as before, but he had still done very well for himself, selling most of the items that had been spread out on the cloth before him. There were only a few trinkets left, as well as the iron-tipped rhino horn and, of course, the book. Fletcher believed most of the soldier’s story, yet he suspected that the book did not contain any secrets of value. He did not understand why the man would lie; whatever it contained, the book would provide fascinating insight into the secretive life of the battlemages. That, in itself, was a valuable prize, one that even now Fletcher would be bartering over if he did not so desperately want that leather jacket.

As he stared at the book, the soldier caught his eye and gave him a knowing smile. Seeing there were no likely customers in the vicinity, he sauntered across the road and fingered one of the better swords on Fletcher’s stall.

‘How much?’ he asked, lifting it from its seat and twirling it in a practised manner. It thrummed the air like a swooping dragonfly, the man’s dexterity and speed remarkable, given his greying hair and wrinkled face.

‘It’s thirty shillings, but the scabbard that comes with it is another seven,’ Fletcher replied, ignoring the glitter of the spinning blade and eyeing the soldier’s other hand. He knew every trick in the book, and the soldier’s behaviour reminded him of a classic. Misdirect the eye by making a show of an expensive piece, then slip a smaller item, like a dagger, into a deep pocket while the vendor was distracted. The soldier rapped his knuckles on the table to get Fletcher’s attention back to the item at hand.

‘I’ll take it. It has a nice balance and a good slicing edge. None of this fencing nonsense the officers keep mucking about with. You think stabbing an orc is gonna stop it before it tears your head off? You might as well stab a wolf with a toothpick. I learned quick: you chop at an orc’s legs and they’ll go down just like any man. Not that I’ll need a decent sword for the northern front, but old habits die hard.’

He punctuated his last sentence with a downward stab into the earth, then pulled out his purse and began to count out the money. Fletcher retrieved the scabbard from behind the stall, a simple but sturdy piece made from an oak frame and wrapped in rawhide.

‘They don’t haggle where you’re from?’ asked Fletcher, after he’d taken the money.

‘Course they do. I just didn’t like the way that little bastard was talking about your stall. The enemy of my enemy is my friend, isn’t that how the saying goes? I wish the elves thought that way. With them, it’s more like the enemy of my enemy is vulnerable, let’s stab them in the back whilst they’re not looking,’ grumbled the soldier. Fletcher remained silent, wary of venturing into politics. There were many who were sympathetic to the elves and a loud discussion on the subject might turn some of the traders away from getting their horses shod.

‘I was enjoying your story before he came along. I hope I don’t offend in asking, but was any of it true?’ Fletcher looked the man in the eye, daring him to lie. The soldier observed him for a moment, then visibly relaxed and smiled.

‘I may have . . . embellished a little. I’ve read the book in parts, but my reading isn’t too good so I flipped through it. From what I can tell, he was studying the orcs, trying to learn from them. There’s orc symbols all over the place, and mostly half-translated ramblings about their clans and ancestors. There are also sketches of demons, damn fine ones too. He was a good artist, even if he wasn’t the greatest summoner.’

The soldier shrugged and took a dagger from the stall, using it to pick at the dirt beneath his nails.

‘Shame though. Thought it would be nice to offload it here. I’ll have to sell it for cheap on the elven border. There’s some who are mad for battlemages in the ranks, but none of them have any coin. Maybe I’ll sell it to several of them, page by page.’ He seemed to like that idea and nodded to himself, as if his problem was solved.

‘What about Didric? His father is a powerful man, and the Pinkertons are staying at his house! If it’s your word against Didric’s, I’m not sure how the cards would fall,’ Fletcher warned him.

‘Pah! I’ve faced far worse than a brat born with a bronze spoon in his mouth. No, those two coppers have seen me try and sell that book before, and they never said a dicky. They like soldiers, do the Pinkertons, think we’re cut from the same cloth, even if all they do is beat up dwarves who look at them funny. Put a Pinkerton in front of an orc and they’ll do what those horses have been piling on the ground behind you for the past few hours,’ he said, wrinkling his nose.

‘Well, make sure I’m there when Didric comes back for the book. I’d love to see his face when you tell him he can bugger off.’ Fletcher rubbed his hands together with glee.

‘Of course.’ The soldier winked, then sheathed his sword and strolled back to the other side of the road, whistling a marching tune.

This was going to be good.

7

The sun was beginning to set, and the soldier had become more and more good-humoured as he raked in a small fortune at his makeshift stand. Nothing remained, except for the book left optimistically in the centre of the cloth at his feet. Throughout the day, the soldier had extolled the virtues of Fletcher’s goods whenever a customer inspected the stall. Thanks to his cajoling, Fletcher had sold two more daggers and one of their cheaper swords at a good price. The day’s sales had not been so bad after all and Fletcher couldn’t wait to get his hands on the leather jacket.

‘Maybe we can get a drink at the tavern after this and celebrate our good fortune,’ the soldier suggested, smiling as he walked across the street again.

‘The tavern sounds good, if you’d allow me to make a quick stop first. There is a purchase I have to make,’ Fletcher replied with a smile, holding a heavy purse up for the soldier to see and jingling it.

‘Is that for the book?’ the soldier asked half-jokingly, but with a hint of hope in his voice.

‘No, though in all honesty had I the coin to spare I would make you a fair offer for it. There is a jacket I have my heart set on, and I only have just enough. The stall is owned by my . . . master, Berdon, so the money we made today will go to him.’

At the sound of his name, Berdon lifted his head from the hoof grasped between his huge hands and gave the soldier a respectful nod, before returning to his work.

‘My name’s Fletcher. What’s yours?’ Fletcher extended his hand.

‘My family name is Rotherham, but my friends call me Rotter,’ he said, grasping Fletcher’s hand with a leathery palm. The grip felt firm and honest to Fletcher. Berdon had always told him that you could tell a lot about a man from his handshake.

‘You may go now, Fletcher. You’ve done well today,’ Berdon called. ‘I’ll put away the stall myself.’

‘Are you sure?’ asked Fletcher, eager to be away from the horses and hear the soldier’s war stories in the warm tavern.

‘Be off with you before I change my mind,’ Berdon said over the hiss of burning hoof.

The leather stall was not too far away, yet Fletcher’s heart fell as he noticed the jacket he wanted was no longer hanging there. He ran ahead of Rotherham down the street, hoping that it had been put away by accident. Janet looked up at him as she counted out the takings for the day; a hefty pile of silver shillings and gold sovereigns that she covered with her arms.

‘I know what you’re going to ask me, Fletcher, but I’m afraid you’re out of luck. I sold it about an hour ago. Don’t you worry, though. I know I’m guaranteed a sale so I’ll start working on another right away. It will be ready in a few weeks.’

Fletcher balled his fists in frustration but nodded in acceptance. He would have to be patient.

‘Come on, boy. I’ll buy you a drink. Tomorrow is another day.’ Rotherham patted him on the shoulder. Fletcher pushed away his disappointment and forced a smile.

‘Hunting season is almost over,’ he said, arguing away his dismay. ‘Wouldn’t get much use out of it this winter anyway, I’ll be in the hot forge prepping for my next trip to the elven front. They’re in dire need of weapons to fill their quotas.’

‘Not that we’ll ever use them,’ Rotherham laughed.

The tavern was loud and crowded as the locals and traders celebrated the close of business. Despite this, Fletcher and Rotherham jostled their way to the corner with a large flagon each, managing to somehow keep most of the ale inside and off the wooden floors, already sticky with spilled booze. They settled into an alcove with two stools and a rickety table, where it was quieter and they would be able to hear each other speak.

‘Do you mind me inquiring about the war, or is it a topic you would rather avoid?’ Fletcher asked, remembering the emotion the man had shown when he recounted the night he lost his comrades in the wood.

‘Not at all, Fletcher. It’s all I’ve known for the past few decades, I’ve probably little else to talk about,’ Rotherham said, fortifying himself with a deep gulp. The beer ran down his grizzled chin, and he smacked his lips and sighed.

‘We hear rumours that the war is not going well for us. That the orcs are growing bolder, more organised. Why is that?’ Fletcher kept his voice low. It was seen as unpatriotic to speak pessimistically of the war, perhaps even treasonous. This was one of the many reasons why news from the orcish front travelled so slowly to Pelt.

‘I can only answer with more rumour, but likely from better sources than yours.’ He leaned in close enough that Fletcher could smell the beer on his breath.

‘There is an orc that is uniting the tribes under one banner, leading them as their chieftain. We don’t know much about him, other than he was born an albino and is the largest orc ever known. The tribes believe he is some kind of messiah, sent to save them from us, so they follow him without question. There has only been one other like him that we know of, back in the First Orc War two thousand years ago. It is because of this albino that the orc shamans share their knowledge and power so that they can send wave after wave of demons at us, and hurl fireballs into the sky to bombard us in the night.’

Fletcher’s eyes widened as Rotherham spoke, his beer already forgotten. Things were even worse than he had thought. No wonder pardons were being exchanged for criminals’ enlistment.

‘Sometimes they break through the lines and send a raiding party deep into Hominum. Our patrols will get them eventually, but never fast enough. I’ve seen too many villages burned to the ground, nothing left but charred bone and ash.’ Rotherham was in full swing now, spitting as he slurped his beer.

‘I’m glad I live so far up north,’ Fletcher murmured, trying to shake the images from his mind.

‘They get rid of the old veterans like me, put a musket in the hands of a boy, and tell him he’s a soldier. You should see what happens when the orcs charge in all their glory. If they’re lucky, they fire one volley and then turn and run. It’s a goddamned disgrace!’ he shouted, slamming his flagon on the table. ‘Too many of our boys are dying, and it’s all the King’s fault. It was Hominum who turned the occasional raid into a full-fledged war. When King Harold was given the throne by his father, he started pushing into the jungles, sending his men to cut down the trees and mine the land.’

Rotherham paused and stared into the bottom of his flagon. He took a deep gulp, then spoke again.

‘I’ll tell you something. If it wasn’t for the summoners, we would be in serious trouble. They’re poncey chaps and they think a bit too much of themselves, but we need them more than anything. Their demons keep an eye on the borders and let us know when an attack is coming, and a large demon is the only goddamned thing that can stop a war rhino other than a cannon or about a hundred muskets. When fireballs rain down on us, the battlemages raise a shield over the front lines. It lights up the sky like a dome of shining glass. The shield takes a battering and it cracks something fierce during the night, but the worst we get is a bad night’s sleep.’ Rotherham took another draught from his flagon, then raised it in a toast. ‘God bless those posh buggers.’

He slapped his knee and polished off his tankard of beer. As he stood up to go to the bar and purchase another, a heavy hand pushed him back into his seat. ‘Well, well. How very predictable that you two should become friends. They do say that snakes travel in pairs,’ said Didric, a sardonic smile on his face.

Jakov removed his hand from Rotherham’s shoulder and made a show of wiping it on his trousers, earning a titter from Didric. Both were now wearing their guard uniforms, heavy mail beneath an orange surcoat that matched the glow of the torches in the tavern.

‘I believe there was a purchase we previously arranged. Here are the four shillings, as we agreed. More than you deserve, but we must always be charitable to those less fortunate than ourselves. Is that not so, Jakov?’ Didric asked, dashing the coins on to the table.

Jakov chuckled and nodded his agreement. Fletcher snorted; Jakov was barely wealthier than Fletcher and was as low born as they came. His face was red from drink, and Fletcher suspected Didric had been plying him with beer all night to turn him to his cause. Not that Jakov had likely needed much persuasion; the man would sell his own mother for a few shillings.

Rotherham made no move to collect the coins, instead staring at Didric until the boy shifted with discomfort.

‘Come on now. A deal’s a deal. It’s not my fault you’re a fraud. You’re lucky you aren’t in chains and on your way to a desertion hearing,’ Didric said, as he stepped behind Jakov’s bulk. The reality of the situation began to dawn on Fletcher, and he gained new appreciation of Jakov. The guard was a large man, towering over Rotherham by at least a foot and built almost as heavily as Berdon. He had not been hired as a guardsman for his intelligence, that was for sure.

Even Didric was half a head taller than Fletcher, and his flabby body was twice the width of Fletcher’s wiry frame.

Rotherham continued to stare, unnerving Fletcher as his steel gaze bore into Didric’s pudgy face. The tension in the alcove racked up another couple of notches as Jakov’s hand wandered towards his sword hilt.

‘Check his satchel. It’s probably in there,’ Didric ordered, but his voice showed a hint of uncertainty. As Jakov moved for the bag, Rotherham stood abruptly, startling the pair into taking a step back. Fletcher rose with him, his fingers balled into fists. His pulse was racing and he could hear his heart juddering as the adrenaline took hold. He felt a twinge of satisfaction when Didric’s eyebrows shot up in alarm as he squared up to him.

‘If you’re gonna unsheathe that sword, you’d better know how to use it,’ Rotherham growled, his own hand resting on the hilt of the sword he had purchased from Fletcher.

Didric’s face paled at the sight of it. He had seen that the soldier carried no weapons in the market and had clearly not expected him to be armed now. His eyes darted furtively between Jakov and the old man. In a sword fight, the soldier would have the upper hand.

‘No weapons,’ he declared, unbuckling his sword and letting it fall to the floor. Jakov’s soon followed.

‘Aye, no weapons,’ Fletcher said, raising his fists. ‘I remember how worried you were about getting blood all over your uniform.’

Rotherham grunted in agreement and laid his scabbard on the table.

‘It’s been a long time since I’ve been in an old-fashioned tavern brawl,’ he declared with relish, grasping Fletcher’s tankard and bringing it to his lips.

‘Fight dirty, and go for the face. Gentlemen’s rules are for gentlemen,’ Rotherham muttered out of the side of his mouth, and with that he spun and dashed beer into Jakov’s eyes, blinding him. Quick as a flash, he had his knee buried in the brute’s groin, and as Jakov doubled over, Rotherham head-butted him with a crack on the bridge of his nose.

Then Fletcher was in the thick of it, swinging at Didric’s round face. The target was an easy one and his first blow smashed into Didric’s nose, spraying red like an overripe tomato. Fletcher’s fist flared with pain, but he ignored it, using the momentum to take his shoulder into Didric’s chest and send him to the ground. That was a mistake. As they tussled on the sticky floor, Didric managed to use his weight to his advantage. He wrapped a beefy arm around Fletcher’s neck and applied pressure. Fletcher’s vision bruised black and consciousness slipped from him. In a last-ditch effort, he sank his teeth into the bare skin of Didric’s wrist, so hard that he could feel the bones grinding. A screech of pain resounded in his ear and the arm withdrew. The relief left him dizzy as he gasped like a beached fish. He slammed his elbow into Didric’s armoured midriff and then spun into a crouch.

Almost immediately, Didric was on him again, trying to flatten him on to the ground. This time Fletcher was ready, pulling in the same direction as Didric and using the fat boy’s momentum to roll on top of him. Then his fingers were around Didric’s throat, choking him with all the strength his hands could muster. Didric flapped at his neck, then his hand flew to his side.

‘Watch out!’ yelled Rotherham, and Fletcher jumped back just in time. A curved dagger sliced across his bright blue tunic and a streak of fire burned across his midriff. Beads of blood sprang up and stained the cloth red, yet Fletcher could feel it was just a scratch. Didric scrambled to his feet and swiped at him again, but Fletcher had backed away.

Then Rotherham was there, his sword held at the base of Didric’s Adam’s apple.

‘What happened to “a deal’s a deal”?’ Rotherham growled, pressing forward so that Didric had to stumble backwards over Jackov’s unconscious body. Fletcher realised that the whole tavern was watching them. The only sound was Didric’s shrill gasps as he tried to speak, yet no words left his mouth.

‘What do you say, Fletcher? Shall we do to him what he tried to do to you? Your guts would be spilled on the floor right now if I hadn’t seen him go for that dagger,’ Rotherham proclaimed, so all the crowd could hear. This time, the murmurs were firmly on the soldier’s side.

‘No. I don’t think so, Rotherham. We must always be charitable to those less fortunate than ourselves.’ Fletcher’s voice dripped with disdain as he pushed Rotherham’s sword down. Before the words had even left his mouth, Didric scurried to the door, both Jakov and his sword left forgotten on the floor.