Summoner: Book 1: The Novice (18 page)

‘Well done. I guess you’re the one to beat,’ he whispered.

‘Not likely. I think that almost killed me,’ Fletcher replied, feeling the warm glow of Ignatius within him. It was strange, he could barely distinguish between Ignatius’s consciousness and his own. The thread no longer connected them; they flowed into each other like the meeting of two rivers.

Othello gave him an encouraging smile and even Sylva touched him lightly on the arm before turning her attention back to Sariel. The elf buried her face and hands in her demon’s golden fur, clinging on to the Canid as if her life depended on it. Fletcher suspected it would be a long while before she would want to infuse Sariel again.

‘Now. Othello and Fletcher, let’s have a look at those heads of yours,’ Lovett said, beckoning them forward. Once they were in front of her, she whispered under her breath, ‘Is there anything you boys need to tell me? You and Sylva look like you’ve been in the wars, and I should know.’

‘It’s nothing we couldn’t handle,’ Fletcher assured her, looking to Othello for support.

‘We dealt with it,’ the dwarf agreed.

Lovett eyed them for a moment, before inclining her head in acceptance.

‘Well, if you ever change your minds, you can talk to me,’ she murmured, looking them in the eyes. ‘You don’t have to fight your battles alone.’

Then she stepped back and raised her voice.

‘Gather round, everyone. I’m going to use the healing spell; you might as well watch.’

The rest of the commoners approached them, chattering with excitement at the opportunity to see another spell. Othello removed his bandage, revealing a jagged cut across his temple.

Fletcher winced at the sight of it. He hadn’t realised how bad the wound was.

‘Watch closely now,’ Lovett announced. She etched a heart-shaped symbol in the air with wyrdlight, then pointed it at Othello’s gash.

‘The healing spell is perfect for cuts, bruises and even internal injuries, although it won’t do anything against poisons and diseases,’ Lovett declared, knitting her brows together in concentration. ‘It requires a lot of mana and takes a while to perform, especially for deeper injuries.’

She exhaled and golden light flowed from the symbol to Othello’s head. Nothing happened for almost thirty seconds. Then, to Fletcher’s astonishment, the wound began to stitch together, sealing itself until the skin was completely healed, leaving nothing but a crust of dried blood.

The group clapped, cheering at the feat. Lovett turned her eyes to Fletcher’s forehead, but shook her head.

‘You’ll have to let that heal on its own, Fletcher,’ she explained, pointing at the swelling. ‘You may have a fracture. The healing spell can cause broken bones to fuse incorrectly, leaving you permanently disfigured. Best not to risk it.’

Fletcher nodded in agreement, fingering the lump on his head with a wince.

‘Right, let’s get the rest of you trained up. Once you’ve mastered infusion we can move on to the fun stuff,’ Lovett exclaimed, clapping her hands.

‘What happens then?’ Rory asked as he unravelled his summoning leather on to the floor.

Lovett removed her goggles and smiled at them mysteriously.

‘We’re going to enter the ether.’

33

Their next lesson was with Major Goodwin, a blustering but strict old man with a red nose and bristling, white goatee. He strode energetically around the lecture hall, belying his portly frame.

‘Demonology is key in supporting your spellcraft and etherwork. It concerns the identification, understanding, and upbringing of all demons, as well as the study of the geography and diversity of the ether. This includes demonic impact upon the summoner’s mana levels and their fulfilment.’ He spoke in short bursts that left the front row of nobles flecked with spit. Fletcher was glad to see that Tarquin was directly in the firing line, and judging by the disgusted look on his face, he did not enjoy being bathed in saliva.

Unfortunately, Fletcher’s smile drew Goodwin’s attention.

‘You boy, what is a summoner’s fulfilment?’ he asked, pointing at Fletcher.

‘Ummm . . . his happiness?’ Fletcher suggested. Wasn’t it obvious?

‘A laughable answer. A summoner’s fulfilment relates to how many demons they are able to harness. I had hoped that someone fortunate enough to be gifted with a rare demon would take time to research this before their first lesson. Obviously I was mistaken. A shame,’ Goodwin said, shaking his head. Fletcher felt his face burn as he reddened with embarrassment. Isadora turned and smirked at him from the row below.

‘Could someone who came prepared explain? How about you, Malik?’ Goodwin questioned.

‘Sir, every summoner is born with varying capacities to absorb demonic energy,’ a tall, dark-skinned noble said. ‘For example, Captain Lovett only has the capacity to harness and control one Griffin and one Mite. Another summoner might be able to harness and control two Griffins, because they have a higher fulfilment level than she does.’

‘Correct. The old King Alfric has a fulfilment level of one hundred, the highest ever recorded since we began classifying demons. Using the example of Captain Lovett again, we know that she has a fulfilment level of eleven, given that her Griffin is a class ten demon and her Mite is a class one demon. What else?’

‘Fulfilment levels can improve,’ Malik said after a pause.

‘How?’

‘I don’t know, sir.’

Goodwin took a long angry sniff through his nose.

‘Not good enough. The answer is that fulfilment levels grow naturally at varying rates for each summoner as time goes by. This process can be sped up by the hard work of the summoner in question. Captain Lovett was not born with the fulfilment level required to harness and control a Griffin. She had to work up to it by the constant use of spellcraft, entering the ether and regularly battling and harnessing other demons. Some summoners spend their entire lives with a fulfilment level of no higher than five, whilst others start at five and work their way up to twenty or so. Well, why aren’t you writing this down?’ Goodwin shouted, sending a fresh spray of spit into the crowd.

The others pulled parchment from their satchels and began to scribble. Fletcher stared at his hands miserably, realising he had none. Everyone else had known they were coming to Vocans weeks ago and had brought the correct materials, but Fletcher had forgotten to buy some in the few days he had been there. Goodwin bristled as he saw Fletcher’s inactivity.

‘Fletcher, is it?’ he growled.

‘Yes, sir,’ Fletcher replied, ducking his head in embarrassment.

‘Whilst the others are busy learning, perhaps you can tell me what happens to a demon once his summoner is killed?’

Fletcher contemplated the question, eager to redeem himself, even if by guesswork. He knew that dead demons were often preserved in jars and sold as curiosities. But surely something must happen when the summoner died and left the demon unharnessed . . . unless it was a trick question? Fletcher remembered Rotherham’s story about Baker and the demon that would not leave his side, even in death. Perhaps it was a trick!

‘Nothing, sir,’ Fletcher replied confidently. But his heart sank as he saw Tarquin smirk. He knew he was wrong before Goodwin had even opened his mouth.

‘Preposterous. Do you know anything about demons at all? When a summoner dies, his demon will remain in our world for just a few hours, before it is reabsorbed back into the ether. To remain in our world alive, a demon must be harnessed. It is that bond that keeps them here. Otherwise, they will simply fade away. Or did you think there were wild demons running about out there?’ Goodwin spoke loudly for the benefit of the others, and in response, the scratch of their quills increased in intensity. Goodwin turned away from him in disgust and stalked to the wall behind him. There were several long scrolls stacked against it, one of which he picked up, unrolled and pinned to the wall. On the front of it was a detailed diagram of a Mite in black and white, with various statistics and numbers below it.

‘Today we are going to learn about Mites, the very lowest level of demon, other than their various cousins at the bottom of the food chain, which are not worth capturing. I know we have two Mites here today, specifically Scarabs, the most powerful of the Mite family. Low in mana, size and strength, but useful as scouts. Very good at distracting the enemy during a fight, especially if they go for the eyes. Genevieve and Rory own juvenile Scarabs, but in a few months they will develop stingers, which can cause low-level paralysis and not an insignificant amount of pain. A swarm of ten stings can take down a bull orc, so do not underestimate the power of their poison.’

‘Terrific!’ Rory said aloud, then covered his mouth with his hands. The others laughed, except for Goodwin, who sniffed irritably.

The lesson continued in this vein for another hour, noting down various statistics and discussing the feeding and breeding habits of the Scarab. Fletcher watched despondently as page after page of notes piled up on the others’ desks, until Othello nudged him with his foot and whispered, ‘Don’t worry, you can copy mine later.’

During lunch, Fletcher managed to borrow a spare quill from Rory and a swathe of parchment from Genevieve, so he was better prepared for the second half of the lesson. But when they returned, Fletcher was surprised to find Scipio waiting in the room for them, with an impatient look on his face.

‘Fletcher, you are to report to the library. You are yet to hand in James Baker’s book, despite being told to bring it to the librarian several days ago,’ he said irritably. ‘Major Goodwin, do you mind at all?’

‘Not with this cadet,’ Goodwin harrumphed. ‘He has been a disappointment.’

Scipio raised his eyebrows at Fletcher but said nothing. Fletcher gathered up his things, feeling himself flush with humiliation. Had he really made such a bad impression?

‘Bloody hell, they take late books very seriously at the library here, huh?’ Rory muttered in his ear.

‘I will meet you there. Be sure to bring the book,’ Scipio said to Fletcher, then strode from the room without a backwards glance.

Fletcher hurried up the stairs, cursing his forgetfulness. He had forgotten to write to Berdon, forgotten to hand the book in and, more importantly, he had forgotten to examine the book itself.

He reminded himself that the sheep wagon had been too dark to read in, a fact that had annoyed him greatly. It had been a torrid and fetid journey with nothing to distract himself with, other than his own thoughts. Even so, Fletcher had definitely had time to read it last night.

By the time he had rushed to the top of the tower, collected his book and made his way back to the library, Fletcher was panting. He steadied himself against the wall and tried to compose himself. He didn’t want to lower Scipio’s opinion of him any more than he already had by walking in all hot and flustered.

‘What are you waiting for, Fletcher, in with you!’ Scipio barked from behind him, making him jump. The Provost laid his hand on Fletcher’s shoulder and propelled him forward.

They walked into the library together, the musty smell of old books bringing memories of Pelt’s crypt back to Fletcher’s mind. Had all that only happened a few weeks ago?

‘Ah, here you are. I must say I have been looking forward to this. Thank you for bringing him, Provost Scipio,’ came a voice from behind the shelves. A middle-aged woman with curly blonde hair and gold-rimmed spectacles emerged. She had a matronly appearance and an open, honest face.

‘This is Dame Rose Fairhaven, the librarian and nurse at Vocans. She has been with us a long time,’ Scipio murmured.

‘Come now, Provost, you make me sound like an old lady. It hasn’t been that long! Well, bring it over here. Let’s have a look.’

She beckoned them both over to a low table illuminated by a plethora of bright candles.

‘Set it down here where we can all see. Arcturus has explained the book’s origin to me. I remember James Baker. Quiet boy, always drawing. He had the heart of an artist, not a warrior. He was never cut out to be a soldier. I’m sorry to hear what happened to him.’ She sighed and sat down beside the table.

Fletcher set the book down and they joined her, leaning over as she flipped through the book with a practised air.

‘This is incredible,’ she breathed. The pages were filled with intricate sketches of demons and spidery handwriting underneath. The level of detail was extraordinary, with statistics and measurements much like the large Mite scroll that Major Goodwin had been teaching from.

‘He’d been studying demons from the orc’s part of the ether, their physiology, their characteristics. He must have been dissecting any preserved orc demons he could find! This is exactly what we need for our archives. Most battlemages seem to have forgotten one of the most important of a soldier’s sayings –
know thy enemy
. Perhaps now that it is all on paper they will actually take that to heart.’

Fletcher grinned, glad that he had finally been able to contribute, even indirectly.

‘That is excellent news, Dame Fairhaven, although I had hoped he would have given us more information on how he found the summoning scroll for Fletcher’s Salamander,’ Scipio said, with a hint of disappointment in his voice.

‘Actually Dame Fairhaven, if you turn to the back, there should be something about it there. I think Baker began a diary towards the end,’ Fletcher suggested.

She flipped through the book until the very last few pages, where the diagrams ended and the pages were filled with lines of text.

‘Wait, what’s this?’ Dame Fairhaven said, pulling out the leathery summoning scroll and turning it over in the light.

‘I . . . wouldn’t touch that if I were you,’ Fletcher stuttered.

‘I know what this is, Fletcher,’ Dame Fairhaven said, stroking the material. ‘I have seen one before, many years ago. Inscribing a scroll through scarification of an enemy’s skin was the usual way the old orc shamans used to gift demons to their apprentices. It’s not so common these days though. Let’s see what Baker had to say on the matter.’

Her eyes scanned the pages as Fletcher and Scipio waited patiently. She seemed to be reading at a terrific pace, but then she was a librarian after all. It wasn’t long before she shut the book and laid it aside.

‘Poor James,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘He became very depressed by the end – nobody would take his research seriously. The other battlemages didn’t respect him because he was such a weak summoner. He was cursed with a fulfilment level of three, poor fellow. I suspect his ill-fated mission into the forest was a desperate attempt to encounter an orc shaman and somehow discover the keys that they use.’

‘Foolish of him,’ Scipio scoffed, throwing his hands in the air. ‘The orc shamans know we want to find out what keys they use, so they never enter the ether anywhere near the front lines. Now tell me about this scroll. It’s what all the fuss is about after all.’

‘It says here he found the scroll buried underground in an old orc encampment. Earlier in the diary, it says that he had found a lot of bones at the same site, both orc and human. My suspicion is that the orcs’ encampment was attacked in the middle of the demon-gifting ceremony and the scroll was buried underground in a mass grave. The men who filled the grave probably did not know its significance,’ Dame Fairhaven said, peering at the scroll with morbid fascination.

‘Useless!’ Scipio grumbled, his voice full of disappointment. ‘A fluke event. I doubt we will find any other scrolls by digging up old bones. Make a copy of the book without the diary and send it out to the battlemages.’

‘Yes sir, I will start it tonight. Although I will need to hire a few scribes to get these drawings right,’ Dame Fairhaven replied, flicking through the book absentmindedly.

‘Do it. At least some good has come of all this,’ Scipio said as he walked from the room. ‘As well as having you of course, Fletcher,’ he added from the corridor outside.

Fletcher eyed the book greedily. He couldn’t believe he had waited so long to read it, long though it was. Dame Fairhaven continued to finger the pages, then as Fletcher shifted on his feet she looked up at him, as if she had forgotten he was there.

‘Sorry, Fletcher, I am just so taken with this book. Thank you so much for bringing it to me. I’m afraid I will have to keep it until enough copies have been made, which should take a few months. You can have it back after that.’