Summoner: Book 1: The Novice (28 page)

45

A heavy mist hung around the castle, fading the horizon into a shadowed whiteness. It gave Fletcher and Atilla the cover they needed as they hobbled down the road outside.

‘I hope Uhtred makes it in time,’ Fletcher said. ‘Rook will be suspicious if I don’t turn up for his lesson.’

‘He’ll be here. You said Valens delivered the pick-up instructions just fine,’ Atilla replied. He was ashen faced, but had recovered enough to walk, even if with a pronounced limp.

They had managed to sneak out of the castle with barely any trouble. Tarquin had made a snide comment as they passed on the stairs, asking if the dwarf was limping because someone had stepped on him that morning. Fortunately, with Othello’s spare uniform and some quick braiding of Atilla’s beard, the twin dwarves were indistinguishable.

Fletcher’s heart leaped in his chest as a shadow darkened the mist in front of them.

‘It’s OK. That’s my father,’ Atilla grunted.

A boar emerged from the fog, pulling a chariot behind it. The rider wore a hood, but Uhtred’s bulky figure was unmistakeable.

‘Get on, quickly. It is not safe out here,’ Uhtred said, pulling the chariot to a halt beside them. Fletcher helped Atilla sprawl at his father’s feet.

‘The dwarves are in your debt. If you need anything, anything at all, just ask,’ Uhtred rumbled, flicking the boar’s reins and turning them around.

‘Wait! I have something to say,’ Atilla announced.

Fletcher turned back, wary of being late for Rook’s lesson that would be starting any minute.

‘Thank you. I owe you my life. Tell Othello . . . I was wrong.’

With those parting words, they disappeared into the mist, until all Fletcher could hear was the echoing clop of the boar’s hooves.

Fletcher was late. When he arrived in the summoning room, both Rook and Arcturus were there waiting for him, with the rest of the students standing in silence before them. Fletcher noticed that Arcturus was wearing an eye patch. Fletcher couldn’t help but smile. With his tricorn hat, Arcturus looked like a pirate captain.

‘Wipe that grin from your face, boy. Do you think your time is more valuable than our own?’ Rook snapped, waving him over to the other noviciates.

‘I’m sorry, sir,’ Fletcher said, standing with the others.

‘I will deal with him later, Rook,’ Arcturus said. ‘But perhaps we should get on with the lesson.’

‘Yes, perhaps we should,’ Rook said dryly, stepping forward. ‘With the tournament coming up, we think it is time to demonstrate how a duel works. Now, Arcturus here believes that learning to duel another battlemage is a useless practice—’

‘The orc shamans rarely duel,’ Arcturus cut Rook off. ‘It is unlikely that you will ever go toe-to-toe with one. They prefer to hide in the shadows and send their demons to do the fighting for them.’

‘A strategy that has served them well in the past. I suspect our battlemage attrition rate is several times what theirs is, but the fact that we fight on the front lines and put ourselves in harm’s way is why we are winning this war,’ Rook countered.

‘But that is not duelling, Inquisitor. That is using our abilities to protect and support the soldiers,’ Arcturus retorted.

‘Yet we use the same skills, do we not?’ Rook mused, rubbing his chin in mock pensiveness.

Fletcher was surprised that the two teachers could argue like this in front of their students. If there was any doubt before, this confirmed it; there was no love lost between the two men.

Arcturus sighed and turned to the students.

‘Regardless of my opinions on the tournament, it has been a tradition since the battlemage school was founded, two thousand years ago. Usually it would take four years of training before you were allowed to compete in the tournament. Last year, it was reduced to two. Now, it is one. We are lucky, in that all of you have been very fast learners. For most novices it takes two years to learn how to perform a basic shield spell. Even you, Fletcher, are ahead of the game. There are plenty of second years who will be unable to form a decent shield.’

Fletcher blushed at being singled out, but felt better. At least he wasn’t going to come last in the tournament.

‘Now, watch closely,’ Arcturus said, etching the shield symbol in the air and fixing it in place above his index finger. He blasted wyrdlight through it and formed a thick, opaque oval shield in front of him.

‘A shield is always stronger when you brace against the impact of whatever is coming your way,’ he lectured, crouching slightly and crossing his forearms in the shape of an X. ‘When defending against an attack spell, the blow has a . . . violent effect.’

‘Are you ready?’ Rook asked lazily, holding up a glowing finger.

‘I a—’

Light flared in the room as Rook whipped a lightning spell at Arcturus, crackling the air with forks of electric rays. He had been so fast, Fletcher barely saw his finger move.

The shield cracked like ice on a lake, emitting loud, sharp snaps with every fracture. Arcturus’s face contorted with effort as he fed more mana to the shield, opaque threads flowing like silk to cover the damage. The force of Rook’s blast pushed Arcturus back, his feet sliding over the leather.

Arcturus extended a finger from his other hand and stirred the air, then with a roar he uncrossed his arms and fired a kinetic blast around the side of the shield.

Rook was sent flying back, slamming into the wall and sliding to the ground.

‘That is why a shield spell is the first thing you should do when entering a duel. You may get them on the back foot by attacking first. But if you don’t beat them with that first shot, they just need to get one attack spell off whilst you’re distracted and it’s over. To attack without a shield is an all-or-nothing move.’ Arcturus smiled and the shield dissipated. The light was sucked back into his finger with a soft swish.

‘It’s best to recover the mana from your shield where possible, especially for those of you with low-level demons. You will need all the mana you can get if you want to last the tournament.’

Fletcher heard Rory curse under his breath behind him.

‘That was a cheap shot!’ Rook snarled, brushing himself off.

‘You have been away from the front lines for far too long, Rook,’ Arcturus laughed, twirling his moustache. ‘Even a second lieutenant knows that you need to put a shield up if your first attack doesn’t work. It is bullheaded to think otherwise, if you’ll pardon the pun.’

‘We’ll see what you think of bullheadedness when my Minotaur has its claws around your Canid’s throat,’ Rook snarled, taking a step towards Arcturus.

The two men glared at each other, their hate unmistakable. They reminded Fletcher of rival hunting dogs, straining at their leashes to attack one another. If the noviciates had not been in the room, Fletcher was sure there would have been an illegal duel taking place there and then.

‘Class dismissed!’ Rook snapped, striding from the room. ‘It’s not like any of you will catch anything before the tournament anyway. Useless, the lot of you!’

Fletcher caught Rory grinning. Despite Rook’s best efforts, the nobles were yet to come close to capturing new demons. Even with the charging stone, their scrying ability was too poor to control their demons effectively. On the other hand, the commoners could now handle their demons with ease, sending them running and leaping over the obstacle course they had set up in the corner of the summoning room. Fletcher was good, but his small scrying crystal hampered him. He pulled it from his pocket and scrutinised it.

‘You heard him; out, everyone!’ Arcturus growled. ‘Not you, Fletcher. Come here.’

Fletcher slowly walked up to him, waiting to be berated for being late. Instead, Arcturus laid a hand on his shoulder.

‘Let me see that scrying stone.’

Fletcher handed it to him without a word.

‘You won’t win the tournament with this. There are challenges, Fletcher, which will require extensive scrying. I can’t lend you my stone; I’m not allowed to show you any favour and even if I wanted to, Rook is watching me too closely. Sort it out.’

Arcturus dropped the crystal back into Fletcher’s hand and looked him in the eye.

‘That’s the difference between a good warrior and a great one. Rook fought hard, but he lost that battle. Don’t fight hard. Fight smart.’

46

The blow came thrumming through the air, slipping past Fletcher’s guard and slamming into his collarbone with a painful crunch.

‘Again!’ Sir Caulder growled, kicking out at Fletcher’s shin with his peg leg before swinging another blow at his head. This time, Fletcher caught the blow with his wooden sword, heaving it aside and kneeing Sir Caulder in the stomach.

The old man collapsed, wheezing on the sand of the arena.

‘Fletcher!’ Sylva shouted from the sidelines. ‘Be careful.’

Sir Caulder held up his hand and slowly got to his feet.

‘It’s all right, Sylva,’ he wheezed, rubbing his stomach. ‘A warrior should never hesitate at an opening. Heaven knows the enemy won’t.’

‘Didn’t you hit Sir Caulder in the face just ten minutes ago?’ Fletcher teased.

‘That was different . . .’ Sylva replied with a rueful smile.

A yell came from behind them. Fletcher turned to see Othello on top of Seraph, their weapons forgotten on the ground.

‘No no no; you need to learn finesse!’ Sir Caulder groaned at them. ‘You can’t just lay into each other until one of you has had enough.’

The two boys got to their feet, grinning sheepishly. A yellow bruise was blossoming on Seraph’s face and Othello’s lip was swollen like a ripe plum.

‘If you went to the trouble of having Uhtred carve us wooden weapons for practice, you should probably use them,’ Fletcher laughed, eyeing the discarded wooden battle-axe and broadsword.

‘We just got a bit overexcited,’ Othello admitted, picking up his axe and brushing the sand off.

He swung it with practised ease, spinning it in the air before slamming it into the sand beside him.

‘Well, you’ve improved a lot since we started training, I’ll give you that,’ Sir Caulder conceded. ‘But Sylva and Fletcher have already advanced to an exceptional level of swordsmanship. I expect you two might be a match for some of the nobles by now, but it will take a lot more work to surpass them. Good is not good enough.’

Sir Caulder glared at the pair for a while longer, then stomped off towards the arena exit.

‘Sparring lessons are done for today. You can practise your spellcraft down here if you like, I won’t stop you.’

The clack of his peg leg against stone faded until he had left the arena.

‘Well, that’s the most praise I’ve heard out of him,’ Seraph observed, picking his broadsword up from the ground. ‘Still, plenty of time to improve; we have a couple of months yet. I’m more worried about next week’s demonology exam. With all this training, I fall asleep as soon as I open my books!’

‘We’ll be fine,’ Othello insisted. ‘I’m yet to see a noble set foot in the library and even Rory, Genevieve and Atlas spend most of their time in Corcillum. If we fail, everyone else will too.’

‘So, shall we practise some spellcraft?’ Sylva said, stepping on to the sand and flaring a ball of wyrdlight. ‘Why don’t you try a fireball this time, Fletcher. I’ll throw up a shield over there and you can use it as target practice.’

Fletcher felt his cheeks flush red, embarrassed at his inability to produce even the most basic of shields. He could blast out a wave of fire, telekinesis or even lightning, which was effective, but wasted a lot of mana. To his chagrin, he still struggled to shape them into a beam or even a ball. Powering a glyph and the spell itself at the same time was too much to hold in his head at once. That being said, he was slowly improving, if not at the rate he had hoped for.

‘You guys go ahead, you’re far more advanced than me. I’ll just practise on the sidelines where I won’t get in the way . . .’

‘OK, if that’s what you want,’ Sylva said with disappointment. ‘Boys, why don’t you try and hit a moving target?’

She hurled a large ball of wyrdlight into the air, sending it zigzagging around the room in a random pattern. Othello laughed and etched the fire symbol, unleashing a tongue of flame that he shaped into a fireball and sent speeding after the blue light. Seraph was not far behind.

Fletcher sat dejectedly on the steps, etching the fire symbol over and over again in the air. He had shaved off some time with his etching, able to form a glyph quicker than any of the others. But that was where it ended. He trickled through some mana and watched as a fan of flame roiled out. With a colossal effort, he compacted it into a rough ball. He looked at it in surprise, then hurled it at the wyrdlight before his concentration broke.

It shot past the spinning blue sphere, grazing the edge and snuffing it out of existence.

‘Yeah!’ Fletcher yelled, punching the air.

Behind him, a slow clap echoed from the arena entrance.

‘Well done, Fletcher, you managed a spell,’ Isadora taunted. ‘Why, you actually performed one of the most basic of abilities required of a battlemage. Your parents must be so proud. Oh . . . wait.’

Fletcher turned, his elation immediately replaced with outrage. Isadora gave him a dainty wave, skipping down the arena steps. Fletcher was surprised to see the seven other first years, trailing behind her into the arena.

‘So as you can see, we were right.’ Tarquin pointed an accusatory finger at Sylva, Othello, Fletcher and Seraph. ‘They are training here, in secret!’

‘That’s why you’re never in the common room,’ Genevieve exclaimed, tossing her hair with surprise. ‘You always say you’re in the library.’

‘We are,’ Fletcher tried to placate her. ‘We just come here afterwards, to practise our swordplay with Sir Caulder. Remember, he offered private tuition to all of us in our first lesson.’

‘That didn’t look like sword practice to me,’ Atlas said, pointing at the empty space above the arena where Fletcher’s fireball had snuffed out Sylva’s wyrdlight. ‘Sir Caulder isn’t even here.’

‘Why didn’t you tell us?’ Rory stammered. ‘You never give me a straight answer when I ask what you’ve been up to.’

Fletcher had no answer for that. It had felt wrong to not include the others. But it would have been too hard to explain, too high a risk of Tarquin and Isadora finding out about what they were doing. Not that it had helped in the end.

‘Why would they hide it from you?’ Tarquin pondered aloud with a theatrical air. ‘Perhaps because . . . no, they wouldn’t. Would they?’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Genevieve, her bottom lip trembling.

‘Well, I’m sorry to say, but it looks as if the other commoners are training in secret to beat you,’ Tarquin theorised, shaking his head with mock disgust. ‘I mean, they haven’t a hope of beating us nobles, let’s be reasonable here. But, if they can embarrass you three in the arena, it might just snag them a commission.’

‘That’s a goddamn lie!’ Fletcher yelled, leaping to his feet and rounding on Tarquin. ‘And if you think we can’t beat you, you’re more arrogant than I thought.’

‘Why don’t we do it right now?’ Tarquin brought his face an inch from Fletcher’s. ‘We’re in the arena. Plenty of spectators. What do you say?’

Fletcher seethed, his hands itching with violent intent.

‘Plenty of
witnesses
, more like,’ Sylva interrupted, pulling Fletcher back from the brink. ‘So that everyone can say they saw Fletcher duel and he can get expelled. Don’t you care about your own career?’

‘Scipio would never expel me,’ Tarquin snapped at her, venom dripping from his words. ‘It’s an empty threat. My father is the King’s best friend; it would never get that far. As for a common bastard like Fletcher . . .’

But Fletcher was on to his game now. He wouldn’t give Tarquin the satisfaction.

‘You’ll get your duel, in good time. When I can beat you with everyone watching. We’ll see who’s the better summoner then.’

Tarquin smiled and leaned in, until Fletcher could feel the noble’s breath in his ear.

‘I look forward to it.’

Tarquin swept out of the room, followed by the rest of the nobility. For a moment Rory hesitated, his face filled with indecision. Atlas lay a hand on his shoulder.

‘They were caught in the act, Rory. We should have known not to trust the likes of them. A wannabe noble, a bastard, an elf and a half-man. You don’t need friends like them.’

Fletcher bristled at the jibe, then realised that by calling Seraph a ‘wannabe noble’, Atlas must have overheard Seraph and him talking in the common room.

‘You’ve been eavesdropping, Atlas,’ Fletcher said. ‘That was a private conversation.’

‘Oh yes, I’ve heard a lot of things these past few weeks. Who do you think told Tarquin and Isadora about your extracurricular activities?’

‘Sneak,’ Seraph spat, kicking the sand in anger. ‘What did he promise you?’

‘A commission in the Forsyth Furies, if I play my cards right. You two should do the same,’ he said, turning to Rory and Genevieve.

‘You would trust those two snakes?’ Fletcher cried. ‘They’re lying to you and they’ll do the same to Rory and Genevieve. Don’t do this, please!’

But it was too late, their minds were made up. One by one, they turned their backs on him and walked away. Until the four were alone once again.