Summoner: Book 2: The Inquisition (17 page)

‘There are some things I have to do soon,’ Fletcher went on, putting his arm around Berdon’s broad back. ‘Things that will take me away from you. But I promise I’ll come home. We can found the new village together, far away from the hellhole this place has become.’

‘I’ll hold you to that, son,’ Berdon said, wrapping Fletcher in a bear hug that made his ribs creak.

There was an awkward cough from behind them, and Fletcher peered over Berdon’s shoulder to see a crowd of people standing there, their belongings piled high on handcarts and a lone, rickety wagon. Janet stepped out from the crowd, her face briefly shaded as Lysander’s shadow glided by.

‘Well, you’ve convinced us. Now stop this soppy rubbish and tell us how to get there.’

Fletcher’s demons ignored each other on the flight to Vocans, despite being inches apart – with Athena on his shoulder and Ignatius around his neck. It wasn’t that they didn’t like each other. Fletcher could tell it was a strange sense of uncertainty, compounded by competitiveness.

The journey was quiet, with little conversation between him and Lovett, though it would have been hard to speak anyway, with the wind snatching away the few words they did attempt. He tried not to dwell on the events of the past few days, for it deeply unsettled him and left him plagued by self-doubt. Even thoughts of Berdon were bittersweet, for their reunion had been short-lived and their parting as painful as the first time he had left him.

Instead, Fletcher busied himself with watching the land below, sweeping into the horizon like a slow-moving patchwork quilt of yellows, browns and greens, broken by threads of blue and grey as roads and rivers wended their way across the plains.

It was almost nightfall when he saw the dark facade of Vocans in the distance, and as they circled down to land in the courtyard, he realised how much he had missed the crumbling old castle.

‘You’d better hurry if you’re going to catch the end of the Tournament,’ Lovett said as they landed, propelling him towards the doors. ‘I’ll unsaddle Lysander, you go on ahead.’

‘Thanks for the ride. I’ll see you in there,’ Fletcher said. ‘Sorry I was such poor company.’

Lovett tutted and waved him away.

‘Don’t worry about it.’

He hurried through the double doors to find the atrium silent as a grave, his footsteps echoing in the empty space. It was strange, to be back. It had been a year, the longest year of his life, but it felt like only yesterday he had walked these halls. Somehow, he felt more at home at Vocans than he had back in Pelt.

Funnily enough, having both Ignatius and Athena on his shoulders barely hampered him, though Athena took the opportunity to stretch her wings and fluttered into the air, gliding above and keeping watch for potential dangers. Ignatius yawned at her, then wrapped himself more closely around Fletcher’s neck, as if to let her know that she was wasting her time.

Soon Fletcher was pacing down the stairs and along the corridor of cells. He could hear the roar of the crowd reverberating along the cold stone walls, rising and falling as a battle for supremacy was waged on the sands of the arena. As he neared the entrance, Fletcher realised it must be the final round, for the cells were empty, with all the contestants but the two in the arena having been knocked out of the Tournament.

His entrance went unnoticed by the spectators, so focused were they on the events below them. Nobles, generals and servants alike added their voices to the chorus, yet now Fletcher could make out one name being chanted.

‘Didric! Didric!’

In the sweltering heat of the arena, two figures whirled around each other on the sand, jabbing and parrying as they sought an opening. There seemed to be no demons present, the rules of the final round set up as a trial by combat, just as Fletcher’s second round with Malik had been in his own Tournament.

Didric was armed with a long, thin rapier on a basket hilt, designed for fencing rather than killing orcs. His blond hair was plastered across his head as he sweated in the sweltering heat of the arena, and a stain of dried blood crusted his lips and chin, the remains of a nosebleed recently staunched.

His scarred face grinned in a savage rictus at his opponent, the once flabby body now lean and hard, extending and rescinding with the practised ease of a trained swordsman.

The other combatant was clearly a dwarf, with a long wave of red hair that lashed the air as they dodged and countered, one hand clutching a spiked bangle as a knuckleduster for striking and parrying, the other wielding a short, wedge-shaped blade on a carved bone handle that Fletcher recognised as a seax.

The dwarf took a few steps back against a sudden flurry of blows from Didric, then lashed out with a foot to send a spray of sand into his face. As Didric spun away, pawing at his eyes, the dwarf took the opportunity to dodge sideways into open space, for they had been pressed up against the wall of the arena.

Fletcher was surprised to see the beardless chin of a female dwarf, her eyes as green as Othello’s, with a smattering of freckles across the bridge of her button nose. She wore no veil as other dwarven females did, but he recognised the spiked bangle in her hand, a torq, the female equivalent of the dwarf male’s tomahawk.

‘Fletcher, down here,’ Othello shouted, and Fletcher saw him waving, a few steps down.

Fletcher made his way to Othello’s side and took a seat, never taking his eyes off the two fighters as Didric closed in once again, spitting words under his breath. Fletcher could not hear what they were, but he could tell from the way the girl’s eyes widened that they were offensive.

‘What’s her name again?’ Fletcher asked, as the girl parried another blow with her torq and swept her seax at Didric’s legs, forcing him to leap awkwardly over her blade.

‘Her name is Cress. Should have won this contest already – Didric wasn’t trained to fence a dual-wielding fighter. See his nose? She got him in the face with her torq, but Rook deemed it a non-killing blow. Typical.’ Othello pointed at the black-clad judge in the corner, his eyes glittering with anger as Cress’s seax slit the cloth of Didric’s uniform at the neck, the flesh beneath untouched thanks to the barrier spell.

‘Come on,’ Othello bellowed, his voice lost in the crowd as they booed Didric’s poor defence. ‘A neck blow is fatal!’

Rook shook his head, pursing his lips. Despite the obvious support for Didric from the almost entirely human crowd, several booed his decision. Noticing the lack of dwarves present, Fletcher nudged Othello.

‘Where’s Atilla? In the infirmary?’

‘No,’ Othello replied. ‘He and Cress … let’s just say they don’t get on. After he lost to Didric he stormed out.’

Below, Cress swept at Didric’s stomach, forcing him to hunch over to avoid it. As he did so, her torq came thrumming through the air, leaving spiked indents in his face and producing a resounding crack that Fletcher heard even over the screams from the crowd. Didric dropped like a stone, spread-eagled on the floor. Even so, Rook gave it a full ten seconds before finally nodding his head, to a smattering of applause from those around him.

‘Cress wins the tournament!’ he said, clapping twice before letting his hands drop to his side. He leaped into the arena as Didric regained consciousness, and helped the woozy boy to his feet. Cress stood proudly, wiping her brow, seemingly unconcerned by the lack of celebration around her.

Clearly, the attacks from the Anvils had done their work. The anti-dwarven sentiment seemed worse than when Fletcher had first arrived at Vocans. Most of the crowd were already dispersing, disappointed that their champion had lost the battle. Othello shook his head as the room began to empty. It was a poor celebration of a well-earned victory.

‘Watch out – the twins are here,’ Othello whispered.

Tarquin and Isadora were climbing the stairs ahead of them with a sweaty Didric in tow. The trio stopped a few steps below, staring Fletcher and Othello down.

‘What a touching family reunion,’ Didric mocked, earning himself a punch on the arm from Tarquin. He caught the hateful look Fletcher gave him, and they stared each other down. It was all Fletcher could do to stop himself from shoving Didric back down the stairs, but Othello grasped his wrist to steady him.

Isadora rolled her eyes and clicked her fingers to get Fletcher’s attention.

‘
Dearest
cousin, it has been far too long.’ She smiled prettily and gave Fletcher an exaggerated curtsy. ‘Why, it’s been over a year, has it not? What
have
you been doing all this time?’

‘You’re no family of mine,’ Fletcher spat, the memory of his long incarceration, and those behind it, still fresh in his mind.

‘I couldn’t agree more,’ Tarquin replied, a vicious sneer on his face. ‘Once a commoner, always a commoner. As long as the inheritance from Aunt Alice is still ours, I don’t care what you call yourself.’

‘You can keep your blood money,’ Fletcher said. ‘Just stay the hell away from me.’

‘Gladly,’ Isadora said, the pretty smile gone from her face. She lifted her nose in the air and sniffed pointedly.

‘Come on,’ she smirked, sauntering away. ‘It stinks of dwarf here anyway.’

Othello reddened with anger, and Fletcher winced as the dwarf tightened his grip on Fletcher’s wrist to stop himself from lashing out.

‘Nice haircut by the way,’ Tarquin called over his shoulder. ‘You must tell me where you had it done.’

‘That’s it …’ Othello growled, leaping to his feet. Fletcher followed suit, but the trio were gone and instead they found themselves staring at a startled Rory and Genevieve.

‘Hello,’ Fletcher said, unsure of himself. The three had not parted on the best of terms – he had almost killed Rory’s Mite in the Tournament, after all.

‘Hello. I see you got out then,’ Rory said awkwardly.

‘That’s right,’ Fletcher replied, scratching his neck.

‘Good … good,’ Rory said, avoiding Fletcher’s gaze. ‘I’m glad.’

They stood there in an awkward silence, until Genevieve stepped forward with a fixed smile.

‘Welcome back,’ she said, giving Fletcher a firm hug. ‘Let’s catch up later.’

She took Rory by the arm and they walked swiftly away.

‘Well, that went … well,’ Othello said.

‘We just need some time,’ Fletcher said. ‘They won’t forgive me all at once.’

‘Aye,’ Othello said. ‘Though you’d think a year would be long enough, right?’

But Fletcher didn’t reply, because Cress had clambered out of the arena and was making her way up towards them, brushing sand from her cadet’s uniform.

Moments later, she stood with her hands on her hips before them, eyes sparkling.

‘So you’re the great Fletcher,’ she said, flashing him a broad grin. ‘I thought you’d be taller.’

‘You’re not so tall yourself,’ Fletcher said, but he couldn’t help but smile back. Her good humour was infectious.

‘Cress and Atilla both made a good showing this year,’ Othello said, smiling too. ‘Beating that braggart Didric was the culmination of a lot of hard work and training. I can’t tell you how unpleasant it’s been studying with him. He and Atlas have been bosom buddies since they first met.’

‘You can say that again,’ Cress said.

She nodded across the room, and Fletcher saw Didric was sitting on the other side of the arena, beside Tarquin, Isadora and Atlas. Though Didric wore the same black and yellow uniform Fletcher had seen before, Fletcher noticed that Atlas and the twins wore the uniform of the Forsyth Furies – black cloth with silver buttons and epaulettes.

‘Why are they wearing their uniforms? Surely they’ve only just graduated?’ Fletcher asked.

‘Tarquin and Isadora were promoted to lieutenants after last year’s tournament, Seraph too,’ Othello said, following Fletcher’s gaze. ‘So the twins have been serving in their father’s regiment all year. I guess they’ve brought Atlas his own uniform, now he’s graduated too.’

With a year of fighting on the front lines, the twins would be more formidable than ever, Fletcher thought with dread.

‘I know all about the mission, by the way,’ Cress whispered, sliding into the seat beside them. ‘Rook told us about it before the Tournament began. I want to join your team, if you’ll have me. I think I’ve proven myself a worthy fighter.’

‘Team?’ Fletcher asked.

But before she could answer, Sylva squeezed in between them and sat down, still adorned in the green armour from the day before.

‘What did I miss?’ she asked Fletcher. ‘Did Didric win? I would have stayed, but I went looking for you.’

‘Oh. No, Cress here beat him,’ Fletcher said, leaning forward awkwardly and pointing at the young dwarf.

‘Well done,’ Sylva said, holding out her hand. Cress took it with a hint of a frown, unhappy at being so rudely interrupted.

Fletcher felt strange sitting so close to Sylva, for they had not spoken since the council meeting. It was difficult for him, to swing between friend and diplomat so quickly, especially after her hesitation to support him.

‘So, as I was say—’ Cress began, but then stopped as Atilla stomped down the stairs beside them. He avoided her gaze pointedly, before nodding respectfully at Fletcher and Sylva.