Summoner: Book 1: The Novice (24 page)

41

What Fletcher had just seen . . . it wasn’t a dream, of that he was certain. He had smelled the blood, heard the screams. The images were Ignatius’s memories, one of the infusion flashbacks that Lovett had warned him about.

‘I’m kind of jealous,’ Fletcher murmured to Ignatius. ‘I had almost forgotten you once belonged to an orc.’

The little demon gave a soft growl and burrowed deeper into the blankets. It was freezing in the room – Fletcher had yet to find anything adequate to stuff into the arrow slit in his wall.

With a flash of revulsion, Fletcher realised that the summoning scroll he had left with Dame Fairhaven had been made from the elf in the memory. Somehow, seeing the actual victim made the relic twice as disturbing.

He contemplated the scene he had just witnessed. What had elves been doing in orc territory? Was the albino orc he had seen the same one that led the tribes now? It couldn’t be. James Baker had written that the scroll was buried amongst bones from long ago. The battle must have happened hundreds of years in the past, perhaps in the Second Orc War; there had been no muskets then after all. But that did not explain what the elves were doing there, nor the albino orc.

‘You’re probably hundreds of years older than me, that’s all I know,’ Fletcher murmured, warming his hands on Ignatius’s belly.

He lay back down on the bed, but sleep would not come to him. He kept turning over the facts in his mind, again and again. Were there any clues? There had been no demons present other than Ignatius . . . did that mean anything? Surely an army of men would have had battlemages, especially for a battle as crucial as that one.

Then it hit him. The banner that the elves had used: the broken arrow! Surely that would reveal which clan the elves had belonged to. Sylva would know who they were; she knew more about the history of their peoples than anyone.

Fletcher’s heart fell as he remembered their argument. Perhaps he had been too hard on her. It was easy to forget the position she was in and the responsibilities she had to her people. Hell, if her friendship meant an end to the war on the elven front, what did it matter if she was being friendly to the Forsyths? At the very least, it would throw a spanner in Didric’s works. There would be no need to send all the prisoners north for training if the elven front didn’t exist any more.

He rolled from his bed and got dressed. Wrapping the still-sleeping Ignatius around his neck like a scarf, Fletcher padded quietly to the girls’ quarters.

‘This time, I’m definitely going to knock,’ Fletcher murmured to himself, not wanting another encounter with Sariel.

Sylva answered the door immediately. Her room was almost identical to Fletcher’s, though twice as large and furnished with an additional chest at the foot of her bed. Sariel was curled up on a sheepskin rug in the centre of the room, watching Fletcher warily. Sylva matched her demon’s expression and Fletcher noticed she was still dressed in her uniform. She must have only just got back from her meeting with the Forsyths. He swallowed his annoyance at that realisation and spoke to her levelly.

‘Can I come in?’

‘Of course. But if you’re here to change my mind you might as well go back to bed. Tarquin and Isadora were willing to put aside our differences, and I hope you are willing to do the same with me!’

‘I’m not here about that,’ Fletcher said, ignoring his desire to contradict her. ‘I had a flashback, like Lovett warned us about. I need to ask you about when the elves and humans last fought together.’

Sylva listened in rapt attention as Fletcher told her about his dream. He tried to recount it in as much detail as possible, hoping that he might remember some other clue.

‘Fletcher . . . are you sure you weren’t dreaming?’ Sylva asked when he finished. ‘It’s only . . . what you told me is impossible.’

‘Why is that?’ Fletcher asked. ‘I’m telling you, it was all real!’

‘If what you say is true . . . Ignatius is more than two thousand years old!’ Sylva breathed. She rushed over to the trunk at the end of her bed and rummaged through it.

‘I know it’s here somewhere,’ she muttered, piling dusty books next to her on the stone floor.

‘Here!’ she announced, heaving a heavy tome on to the bed.

Fletcher sat next to her and she flicked through it, before settling on an illustrated page in the middle. The scene it depicted made him feel dizzy: elves riding elks, charging into a horde of orcs. The broken arrow pennant streamed behind them. Men on foot assaulted from the other side, wearing the exact same armour as in Fletcher’s vision. Even the albino orc’s bodyguard was featured, the red and yellow war paint unmistakeable.

‘Do you remember what I told you that night in the cornfields? About how the elves taught the first King of Hominum how to summon in exchange for an alliance against the orcs? This was the final battle they fought, the Battle of Corcillum, so called because of its proximity to the dwarven city. Your demon’s namesake, Ignatius, would have led the charge in that battle. Apparently it didn’t happen too far from here, but the site of the battle has been lost in time. The fact that you got to see it . . . it’s incredible!’ She stroked the page, tracing the outline of an elk’s antlers.

‘But I don’t understand. Why was there an albino orc . . . and why was Ignatius the only demon there?’

‘Only the elven clan chiefs were summoners, and the whole reason they made their deal with your first King was so they didn’t have to risk themselves in battle. The elves weren’t supposed to do any fighting after the agreement, but the Battle of Corcillum was fought because a clan chief’s son was kidnapped, so the elves sent their own soldiers in to help. They hadn’t taught King Corwin the art of summoning yet either, as the conditions of the agreement clearly stated that the orcs had to be utterly defeated first. As for the albino orc, I have no idea. All I know is that after the Battle of Corcillum, the orcs fell back to the jungles. It was the decisive victory that heralded an age of peace, lasting until the Second Orc War, three hundred years ago.’

Fletcher was glad he had come to Sylva. She seemed to have learned everything about human and elf relations in her preparation for coming to Vocans.

‘I think we need to go to the library and research if there have ever been any reports of another albino orc,’ Fletcher said. ‘It seems as if after the last one was killed, the orcs fell into disarray. Maybe the white orcs aren’t just their leaders; there could be something more to it!’ Fletcher said.

‘You’re right. Ignatius was about to be gifted to him and it seemed to be an important ceremony. We need to research what we can about the orcs and their past leaders, maybe we can turn something up.’ Sylva stood and strode to the door.

‘Where are you going?’ Fletcher asked as Sariel bounded after her, nearly knocking him to the ground.

‘To the library, of course. I said, as soon as possible!’

Fletcher had no choice but to follow her.

It was dank and cold in Vocans at night, but their wyrdlights lit the way well enough. The use of spells no longer gave Fletcher the joy it had before, for he was still dwelling on his performance in Arcturus’s lessons.

He tried to stay positive and concentrate on the task at hand. At least he had the chance to redeem himself by providing useful information about the orcs.

If only they had access to the summoner’s book. Fletcher would have loved to be able to read more about the site where Ignatius’s scroll had been found.

As they descended the spiral staircase, Fletcher saw the glow of another wyrdlight behind them.

‘Hide! It might be Rook!’ he hissed.

They snuffed out their own lights and ducked into one of the upper corridors. Holding their breaths, they pressed themselves into a doorway. Sariel whined at the sudden darkness but was silenced with a tap on the muzzle from Sylva.

Hasty footsteps soon followed, accompanied by heavy breathing. Whoever it was, they were in a hurry. After what seemed an age, the steps faded, and they were shrouded in darkness once again.

‘Come on, let’s go,’ Fletcher muttered when he was sure they were out of earshot.

‘Who would be wandering the corridors at this time?’ Sylva asked.

‘I think I have some idea,’ Fletcher said, leading the way down the stairs again, careful not to trip in the dark.

‘What do you mean?’ Sylva asked.

‘The first night I was here, I saw someone leaving our common room and eventually the castle. It looked like they were in a hurry and didn’t want to be seen,’ Fletcher replied, turning into the corridor that lead to the library.

‘That’s so suspicious, Fletcher. Why haven’t you told anyone?’ Sylva asked, disapproval clear in her voice.

‘Because I didn’t think anything of it. It could have just been someone going for some fresh air. That’s why
I
was out that night. Now it’s happened again though . . . maybe I should have said something.’

Fletcher pushed at the door to the library. It shook on its hinges, but remained firmly closed.

‘Well, it looks like we’ve just wasted a trip downstairs. Dame Fairhaven must have locked it when the last student left for bed . . . which we should do too,’ he said, kicking the door in frustration. ‘The library can wait until after Rook’s lesson.’

‘I’m not going to bed! There’s somebody sneaking about the school at night. I’m going to find out who it is. If I can bring a traitor to justice, everyone will know that the elves are trustworthy.’

With that, she strode back down the corridor and bounded down the spiral staircase.

‘Sylva, it’s not safe for you out there! Those men who attacked you in Corcillum could be watching the castle!’

But it was too late. Sylva was gone.

Fletcher cursed as he tripped in the darkness.

‘Sylva!’ he hissed, trying to be loud and quiet at the same time. He had been following her trail for the past hour, though the thin sliver of moon in the night sky gave him barely enough light to see her trail. There was a flattened patch of grass here, a broken twig there. At one point he thought he had lost her, but the ground had been softened by a recent rain, allowing him to feel the soft indent of footprints that slowly filled with water. If he had not been a practised hunter, he would have lost her.

He could have kicked himself for not following her immediately after she had left. Instead, he had chosen to run back upstairs and get his khopesh, in case they ran into any trouble. Who would have thought she would move so fast?

Now he had reached the edge of a small forest, tall trees growing in some craggy hills half a mile from Vocans.

‘Sylva, I’m going to kill you!’

‘Not likely,’ whispered a voice from behind him.

Fletcher felt cold steel press into his back and froze.

‘I’m perfectly aware of the dangers I face because of what I am. But I refuse to live in fear, or change my behaviour to accommodate my enemies.’

Sylva stepped in front of him and flashed a long stiletto blade, not dissimilar to the one he had made in Uhtred’s forge.

‘I came prepared, of course,’ she said, smiling. ‘But Sariel is worth a bodyguard of ten men and two trackers to boot.’

As Fletcher’s pride stung from being caught unawares, Sariel wandered into view from behind a crop of rocks ahead, snuffling at the ground.

‘Sylva, let’s go back. This is none of our business! It could be Genevieve visiting her family, we know she lives near here,’ Fletcher reasoned, eager to get back to Vocans. It was freezing out there, even with his jacket on.

‘Not when we are so close,’ Sylva replied stubbornly. ‘They’re just ahead of us; come on!’

She jogged away before Fletcher could stop her. Groaning with exasperation, he followed.

The wyrdlight came into view almost immediately. It floated above a small rocky cliff, which Sylva crawled up before poking her head out to see. Her eyes widened and she motioned for Fletcher to join her.

He looked apprehensively at the muddy ground. What could Sylva possibly be seeing below that had got her in such a state? Curiosity got the better of him and he lay flat in the dirt, before sliding himself up the incline to lie beside Sylva. The front of his uniform and jacket were soon soaked with cold mud, but it was nothing compared to the cold that trickled down his spine when he saw what was below.

Othello and Solomon stood in front of a cave. There were two mounted dwarves guarding it, sitting astride boars, the chosen steeds of the dwarven people. The boars had coarse, rust-coloured fur, with heavy tusks that jutted dangerously from their snouts. They were nothing like the wild pigs that Fletcher had hunted in Pelt; these were muscled chargers, with red, baleful eyes that seemed full of rage and malice.

The dwarves themselves were armoured, with horned helms on their heads and two-handed battle-axes clenched in their fists. A bandolier of hurlbat throwing-axes hung from their saddles, deadly projectiles with an additional blade in the top of the axe and a sharpened handle.

And then they heard a clear, booming voice announce, ‘Othello Thorsager, reporting for the war council. They are expecting me.’