Summoner: Book 1: The Novice (31 page)

51

The khopesh was slippery in Fletcher’s palm. He tried not to think of what might happen if Zacharias or the Favershams decided to cut the mana off at the wrong moment. A tragic accident – that is what they would claim.

‘Come on, Fletcher, we haven’t got all day,’ Rook sneered, walking into the centre of the arena. ‘There are three more battles to get through this round.’

Fletcher ignored him and instructed Ignatius to go and sit on the steps, away from the battle. If the demon interfered, they would be disqualified.

‘Begin!’ Rook uttered, giving the contestants an exaggerated bow.

Fletcher took a few steps forward, trying to acclimatise to the new landscape. Whereas before they had trained on flat sand, now the place was strewn with jagged rocks and debris from the first round.

As Fletcher circled, Malik stood like a statue, watching him. The young noble had chosen his place well, an area surrounded by loose rocks where an attacker might lose his footing. Fletcher decided he would not allow him to choose their combat ground.

Instead, he looked to the tower, with its spiral pathway to the top. He remembered what Othello had said, about how the dwarves built their stairs in an anticlockwise spiral, so that the attacker’s sword arm would be encumbered by the pillar when fighting downwards. By that same logic, an attacker would be equally encumbered in a clockwise pathway on their way up!

Fletcher darted to the pillar and clambered up on to the pathway. Keeping an eye on Malik, he manoeuvred himself around until he stood just below the broken stump that he had blasted a few minutes before.

‘Come at me, if you dare!’ Fletcher shouted, for the benefit of the spectators.

‘I will not fight you on the pillar, Fletcher,’ Malik’s voice was calm and considered. ‘Why not come down and meet me in the middle, on neutral ground?’

If impatience was supposed to be Fletcher’s weakness, he would wait Malik out. He did not give a damn what the generals or nobles thought of him. But Malik did. If they were to stand at this impasse for too long, it would ruin both their reputations in the eyes of their audience. And if it was reputation that Malik cared about, Fletcher would use it to his advantage.

‘So, the son of the great Baybars refuses to fight! Perhaps the apple falls far from the tree in the Saladin family.’

Malik bristled at Fletcher’s words, taking an angry step forward.

‘A Saladin will fight anytime, anywhere. We have fought from the desert to the trenches, into the deepest jungles of orcdom itself. I doubt you could say the same of your family.’

‘So prove it! Come show me what a Saladin can do,’ Fletcher goaded, twirling his khopesh in mock confidence.

Malik needed no more provocation. He raised his curved scimitar high and mounted the pathway, taking long, measured strides. Even in his anger, the boy was a natural swordsman. Fletcher hoped that the pillar would give him enough of an advantage.

The first blow came whistling around the corner, chopping at his legs. Fletcher caught it in the curve of his khopesh and turned it aside, before cutting at Malik’s head. The noble ducked, leaving the blow to crunch into the pillar.

Malik stepped further out and came at him head on, feinting a crooked slice around the pillar at Fletcher’s head, then sweeping again for the legs. Fletcher leaped, letting the scimitar whistle under his feet. Landing in a crouch, he punched out and caught Malik on the cheek, knocking the noble back a few paces.

They glared at each other, panting. Fletcher had felt the silky smoothness of the barrier in the punch. He ran his palm along his own hand and felt the same, but barely. It was probably only Scipio who was channelling mana correctly to it. He put it to the back of his mind. There was nothing he could do about it now.

The scimitar swung back and forth, held lightly in Malik’s hand. It was not unlike a khopesh, with a curved blade and sharp point. With a flick, Malik tossed it from his right hand to his left.

‘My father taught me to fight left-handed. Did Sir Caulder ever teach you that?’ Malik snarled.

Fletcher ignored him, but a cold sweat trickled down his back. With the scimitar in Malik’s left hand, the pillar was no longer a barrier between them. Still, at least Fletcher had the high ground.

Malik stabbed at Fletcher’s stomach, but Fletcher caught it in the curve and forced it into the ground. They struggled, chest to chest, the wooden pathway creaking under their feet.

Fletcher could feel Malik’s hot breath on his face as the noble used his height and strength to lever the blade towards Fletcher’s crotch. He heaved, but the sword scarcely wavered as it slowly inched upwards.

He felt the point scrape along the inside of his thigh. Was that blood he felt trickling down his leg? The blade was just an inch away now. In a few seconds, it would be buried in his flesh.

Fletcher saw his life flashing before his eyes, images of Berdon, Didric, Rotherham. His first fight. Rotherham head-butting Jakov, a man twice his size.

It clicked. Fletcher looked up to the ceiling, then whipped his head forward, smashing Malik on the bridge of the nose with his forehead. The boy stumbled, and then fell, flailing, over the side.

Malik bounced off a jagged rock, which hit him squarely in the stomach. He lay in the sand, gasping like a beached fish.

‘A killing blow! The rock would have impaled him,’ Fletcher shouted.

‘Not in my opinion,’ Rook replied with a sneer. ‘It doesn’t look so sharp to me. See, he’s getting up already!’

Malik was indeed getting up. He glared up at Fletcher, taking deep, rattling breaths.

‘Give up! You’re injured, and I have the high ground!’ Fletcher implored.

But Malik would not. Fletcher had pushed him too far, hurt his pride too much. The young noble raised the scimitar with a roar and sliced it into the pillar. It clattered loudly, but Fletcher saw flecks of clay come spraying off.

Malik swung again, this time with greater success. Great chunks of red clay crumbled and the platform shook under Fletcher’s feet.

‘
You
give up!’ Malik shouted.

But there was no time for Fletcher to even reply. With a crack, the pillar began to collapse in on itself, hairline fractures spreading up the column like forked lightning.

With seconds to spare, Fletcher leaped from the top, praying for a soft landing. As he rolled into a crouch on the sand, the pillar crashed beside him, sending a maelstrom of ceramic dust into the air.

He could see nothing, the red powder coating his lips and tongue. It was hard to breath. A shadow went by on his left, then his right. Was it Rook? Or Malik?

Suddenly, Malik burst from out of the red haze, screaming in fury. He swung down hard, but Fletcher dodged aside, feeling the blade graze his forearm. Malik disappeared again, blending into the rusty gloom.

Fletcher looked at his arm. Blood welled, but it was just a scratch. He knew one thing now. This was for real – the barrier was useless. Just one lapse in concentration, and he was a dead man.

He spun around, looking for the shadow once more. A figure moved, just out of sight. He squinted, watching, as the dull figure raised its arm. A rock came flying out of the fog, cracking him on the forehead. Stars burst across his vision, and he was on his back, staring into the billowing dust.

Fletcher swam in and out of consciousness, the edges of his vision bruising. It would be so easy to just let it all go.

A searing pain flared in the palm of his hand, bringing him back from the abyss of unconsciousness. His head lolled to the side and he saw Valens, biting into his flesh with his mandibles. Fletcher coughed and shook his hand, trying to dislodge him. The beetle gave him once last nip, than shot off into the dust, his job done.

Fletcher began to stand, but the khopesh was kicked from his hand and a foot was pressed down on his throat.

‘I’m going to knock you out cold, Fletcher. Nobody disrespects the Saladins.’ Malik’s voice was faint, as if Fletcher was hearing it from a great distance. He needed help. Ignatius? No, he was too far away.

His hand scrabbled for a rock, anything, but all he could feel was sand. Malik raised his sword, his teeth stark white against the red dust that coated his skin. As the dust began to settle, he could see the watching crowd through the haze. Their cries of excitement reached a fever pitch.

‘Good night, Fletcher.’

Fletcher hurled a handful of sand at Malik’s face. The noble screamed and span away, blinded. Fletcher got to his feet unsteadily, then, with his last ounce of strength, tackled Malik to the ground. There was a thud as the noble’s head slammed against a rock, then silence.

They lay there for a while, the dust settling around them like a warm cloak. It was peaceful, lying in the dirt. He barely felt the hands that lifted him to his feet, or the glass of water that was pressed to his lips. But he did hear the words that Scipio was shouting.

‘Fletcher wins!’

52

‘I can’t do it, Fletcher. It has to be you,’ Othello implored through the bars of the next cell.

The dwarf was determined. Sir Caulder had just told them they would face each other in the semi-final, and Othello was refusing to fight.

‘No, Othello. I used up too much mana in the first round. I won’t be able to win,’ Fletcher replied.

‘Well, neither will I; Rufus broke my damned leg! I was lucky to beat him at all,’ Othello said, pointing at his heavily splinted shin. ‘In the next round, I’m going to tap out and let you go to the final. If it came to a fight between us, you would probably beat me at this point anyway. If I disqualify myself, you don’t need to use any mana in round three at all.’

‘Why don’t you just get Dame Fairhaven to heal it?’ Fletcher asked.

‘The healing spell only works for flesh wounds, remember? If you start messing about with healing bones, they fix crooked. Trust me, I’ve asked. I want a crack at Tarquin as much as you do, maybe even more so. But I know that I wouldn’t stand a chance.’

‘Look, it might not matter anyway,’ Fletcher argued, pointing down the corridor. ‘Tarquin may have beaten Seraph, but Sylva beat Isadora. Sylva and Tarquin are fighting right now to see who goes to the final. If she wins, I’m going to tap out. The dwarves need one of their own to make it as a finalist; it will impress the generals more. I can say I have concussion. That’s half true anyway.’

He rubbed the cut on his head, where the stone had struck. The injury had almost been a blessing in a way. When Scipio saw the broken skin, he immediately realised that there had been foul play. The Provost had suggested that Zacharias and the Favershams take a break and had replaced them with more impartial nobles, who would shield Fletcher properly for the next fight.

There was a rumbling noise from Othello’s cell. Solomon was groaning in distress. He paced around the cell, before stopping to stroke the splint on Othello’s leg. Ignatius chirred sympathetically, lapping Fletcher’s face with a wet tongue.

‘I’ll be fine, Ignatius. Tarquin doesn’t know about the tattoos. He’s going to underestimate us,’ Fletcher whispered.

Sir Caulder rapped on the cage bars with his staff, making Fletcher jump.

‘Come on, you two. Battle’s over.’

‘Did Sylva win?’ Fletcher asked as Sir Caulder unlocked the cells.

‘See for yourself,’ the old soldier said grimly.

Dame Fairhaven and Scipio were carrying Sylva out on a stretcher. Her arms, legs and face were black and blue, with a terrible lump on the side of her head. Sariel staggered behind them, her tail between her legs. The Canid’s fur was matted with blood, and there was a nasty scratch along her side that ran from snout to tail.

‘He hit Sylva with a kinetic blast,’ Scipio said, glancing at their worried faces. ‘She landed badly. We don’t know the extent of the damage yet.’

‘Poor girl, she had to fight both twins, one after the other,’ Dame Fairhaven said, shaking her head. ‘She used most of her mana in the first round, and then it took all her physical strength to beat Isadora, so she was exhausted when she went up against Tarquin. She put up a hell of a fight though. Nobody will go away thinking that the elves are weak,’ Dame Fairhaven said, her voice laced with sympathy.

‘With a head injury like this, it’s not safe to heal her, especially if her skull is damaged. We’re going to let her rest in the infirmary. If she wakes up, we will let you know.’

Fletcher clenched his fists, looking at the broken body on the stretcher.

‘Let’s go.’

Fletcher helped the dwarf limp into the arena. He remembered helping Atilla the same way; remembered the blood that trickled down his back as he carried him. The tears on Othello’s face when he saw they were alive. The Forsyths were the centre of it all, like a fat spider in the centre of a web of deceit. Fletcher was going to make them pay for what they had done.

Othello could barely stand when they finally reached the sand. His face was tinged green, with beads of sweat dotting his forehead. The dwarf was right; he wouldn’t last two seconds in a battle with Tarquin. Fletcher was their only hope now.

‘The rules are simple,’ Rook stated, striding between the two cadets. ‘Demons cannot attack summoners, since the barrier spell is ineffective against demonic attack. My Minotaur will be helping to keep your demons away from your opponents, in case they get overzealous.’

It was then that Fletcher noticed the bullheaded demon, lurking behind the fallen pillar. It stood at seven feet tall, with sharp, curved horns and shaggy hair as black as his own. Its cloven hooves left round imprints in the sand as it paced back and forth, as if it couldn’t keep its rage in check. Its hands would have been identical to a man’s, were it not for the thick, black claws that jutted from its fingers. A pair of red-rimmed eyes stared at him balefully, then the Minotaur turned away, misting the air with a snort of disdain.

‘Yes, he is quite the specimen isn’t he?’ Rook noticed Fletcher staring. ‘Caliban has a fulfilment level of eleven, so he should be able to handle any unruly demons with ease. You have been warned.’

The Inquisitor continued on, walking around the arena, his hands clasped behind his back.

‘If you step out of the arena, you lose. If your demon is knocked unconscious or leaves the arena, you will lose. If you kill the demon of your opponent, you will be disqualified and also expelled. We do not fight to the death here, and demons are a precious commodity. So, warn them to be cautious. They may injure, but not maim. They may hurt, but not kill.’

‘What about us, can we kill?’ Tarquin sneered from the sidelines. He was seated on one of the dismantled platforms, stroking one of Trebius’s heads.

‘No, the same rules apply as they did in your last match, Master Tarquin,’ Rook said, smiling at the young noble. ‘If you land a spell or a sword cut powerful enough to be deemed a killing blow, you win. The barrier spell will prevent you from being shocked, burned or cut, although it will hurt like hell if you’re hit. As I’m sure you are aware, Tarquin, after you finished with the elf.’

‘She did seem to be in an awful lot of pain,’ Tarquin smirked. ‘But I soon put her out of her misery. I’m sympathetic that way.’

‘Come on, let’s get this over with,’ Fletcher growled through gritted teeth. Othello was already limping to the side of the arena.

‘Begin!’ Rook shrieked.

Fletcher gave Rook a cool smile and watched as Othello clambered out of the arena and dropped on the floor.

‘Oh, no,’ Tarquin shouted with exaggerated dramatics. ‘I was
so
hoping to fight with the half-man. Defeating two subhumans
in one day; wouldn’t that have been a treat.’

‘Shut your filthy mouth and come and fight me, Tarquin. Let’s get the final started, right now.’

Tarquin rolled his eyes and strode into the arena.

‘Oh, very well. Let’s get on with it.’

‘Are the barriers up?’ Scipio asked, holding up his hand.

‘They are, Provost,’ said a noble from the crowd.

‘In that ca—’

‘Begin!’ Rook screamed.

Tarquin was already hurling fireballs before Fletcher even heard Rook’s voice. He ducked behind a rock just in time, feeling the heat as one singed his hair.

‘Ignatius, hide!’ Fletcher whispered, sending the Salamander darting off into the jumble of rocks. Trebius was a powerful demon, but a well-placed fireball from Ignatius could end the battle there and then. Ignatius just needed to avoid his serpentine heads.

A kinetic ball slammed into the rock, crumbling the other side.

‘Come out, Fletcher, I want to play,’ Tarquin yelled.

‘I’m just getting warmed up,’ Fletcher yelled back, firing up an oval shield with a blast of mana. He could feel his reserves draining out of him. He knew from his studies that Hydras had very high mana levels. If he and Tarquin matched blow for blow, it would not end well.

He rolled out from behind the rock, sprinting for the cover of the fallen pillar. His shield crackled as a fireball slammed into it, but it was a small one, not nearly enough to knock him off his feet.

‘Try this one for size,’ Tarquin shouted, flinging a second from behind his back.

The fireball hit the shield like a battering ram, knocking Fletcher flying. As he scrambled to get up, Tarquin whipped another into the shield, blasting him back into the dirt.

‘Come on; I thought you were going to make it interesting,’ Tarquin laughed, as Fletcher huddled behind a rock. ‘At least drag it out a bit. Trebius, find the Salamander. I want to
injure
!’

Fletcher took the opportunity to strap on his eyeglass. Ignatius was on the other side of the arena, trying to sneak up behind Trebius. The task was near impossible, with the three heads covering all angles.

‘Go for it, Ignatius,’ Fletcher whispered. ‘You can take him.’

The Salamander darted out, haring towards the Hydra. He leaped from rock to rock, avoiding the heads as they snapped at him with vicious intent. With one last lunge, Ignatius skidded below Trebius, unleashing a tornado of flame against his unprotected underside.

Trebius roared as the fire scorched his flesh. He spun and stamped, but Ignatius was tenacious, weaving through the dancing claws and lashing the demon with tongues of flame.

‘Enough!’ Tarquin roared, pointing his finger at the milling demons. A kinetic ball flew under Trebius, knocking Ignatius head over tail into the centre of the arena. The demon lay there, like a broken toy on a nursery floor.

‘I believe this match is finished,’ Rook laughed, as the Minotaur shambled over and gave Ignatius a tentative prod with his hoof.

‘Hear hear,’ Zacharias shouted from the crowd.

Trebius hissed, stomping towards the fallen demon. He stopped a few feet away, lowering his three heads and flicking forked tongues over the prone figure.

But Fletcher felt no sorrow, no disappointment. He could sense Ignatius’s mind, his intentions.

‘That’s right, Ignatius,’ Fletcher breathed. ‘Fight dirty. Gentlemen’s fighting is for gentlemen.’

Fletcher absorbed the shield back into his body. With the manoeuvre he was about to do, he was only going to have one shot at this. It flew in the face of everything Arcturus had taught them about duelling. But it was a risk well worth taking.

‘All right, Tarquin. Let’s see how you like being hit by all three barrels at once,’ Fletcher muttered, powering up his three attack-spell fingers. ‘I hope you’re ready, Ignatius.’

Fletcher leaped to his feet and sprinted full tilt across the arena. Ignatius burst into life with a screech, blasting upwards with a wave of roaring flame.

The Hydra bellowed and reared on its back legs, then came crashing down at Ignatius with deadly force. A split second before he was crushed, Ignatius dissipated into white light, infused through the pentacle on Fletcher’s palm.

Realising what Fletcher had done, Tarquin threw up a hasty shield. It was just in time, as Fletcher fired a spiral of lightning, fire and kinetic energy that sent Tarquin skidding back to the very edge of the arena, his feet leaving deep furrows in the earth.

The shield cracked and buckled, but Tarquin was just managing to hold on, feeding thick ribbons of white light to repair the damage. Fletcher doubled the power of the attack, flooding his body with mana and pushing it into the twisting corkscrew of energy that held Tarquin at bay. His fingers seared with pain and the air around the beam distorted and hummed with intensity, forks of lightning shattering rocks into glittering fragments. The sand below turned into a channel of molten glass, bubbling like lava.

Ignatius was with him now, sending every last ounce of energy and encouragement. Fletcher roared, putting everything he had into one final burst of mana, draining every last drop from their reserves. A shockwave flipped the world on its head as the shield exploded.

He spun and tumbled in the air, buffeted by a spray of dust and rock. Then he was on his back, staring at the ceiling. Darkness overwhelmed him.