Summoner: Book 1: The Novice (9 page)

16

Fletcher did not learn much more from Arcturus that night. The man was as good as his word, buying Fletcher a steak and kidney pie and listening to his story – leaving out Didric’s part, of course. No sooner had Fletcher finished speaking than Arcturus excused himself and disappeared to his chambers. Fletcher didn’t mind; he bathed in a steaming hot bath with a full belly and slept between silk sheets. Even the imp had feasted on a fresh, minced steak, devouring it in seconds before nosing his bowl for more. If Arcturus could afford such finery, surely the life of a summoner could not be all bad.

In the morning he was woken by an impatient man, who claimed that he had been instructed to take Fletcher to the academy. When Fletcher emerged into the street, the man bade him hurry up and sit beside him in the front of the wagon, or he would be late for his morning delivery of fruit and vegetables.

The journey took over two hours but the driver evaded Fletcher’s attempts at small talk, his face pinched with worry at the traffic on the road. Instead, Fletcher passed the time by allowing the imp to ride proudly on his shoulder, grinning at the curious glances from people as they trotted by. After Arcturus had allowed Sacharissa out in the open so brazenly, Fletcher did not see why he couldn’t do the same.

He tried to picture Vocans, but he knew so little about it that his mind ranged from imagining a sumptuous palace to a comfortless training ground for fresh recruits. Either way, his excitement mounted with every turn of the cart’s wheels.

Finally, they arrived at the frontier with the southern jungle, the boom of cannon echoing in the distance. Whereas before the dirt road they were travelling on was surrounded by green fields, this land was thick with weeds and pitted with heavy gouges in the earth, evidence of the war that had since passed this land by.

‘There’s the castle,’ the driver said, breaking his silence. He pointed at the murky shadow of what looked like a mountain ahead of them, obscured by a thick fog that hung in the air. The wagon had joined a queue of others, though these were delivering heavy barrels of gunpowder and crates full of lead shot.

‘Is that where the King lives?’ Fletcher asked.

‘No, boy. That’s Vocans Academy. The King lives with his father in a fancy palace in the centre of Corcillum,’ the driver replied, giving him a curious look. But Fletcher wasn’t listening. Instead he gazed open mouthed, as the fog was dissipated by a heavy gust of wind.

The castle was as large as one of Beartooth’s peaks. The main building itself was a giant cube, made up of blocks of marbled granite, with terraces and balconies layered into the sides, like decorations on a wedding cake. There were four round turrets on each corner, each one with a flat, crenulated top, stretching hundreds of feet into the sky above the main structure. A deep moat of black, murky water surrounded the castle, twenty feet wide with a steep bank on each side. The drawbridge was down, but all the wagons passed it by, moving towards the cannon fire that still boomed in the distance.

As they moved closer to the academy, Fletcher could see that the walls were thickly latticed with creeping ivy and tinged with lichen and moss; it must have been built centuries ago. The boards of the drawbridge emitted a dangerous creak as the driver clucked his skittish horses over the top of it, but they made it to the other side in one piece.

The courtyard was shadowed by the four walls around it, with only a small square of sky illuminating it, from several storeys up. It was dominated by a semicircle of steps that led up to a heavy set of wooden double doors; the entrance to the castle.

As soon as the horses’ hooves clopped on the cobbles, a fat man in an apron, with a puffy, red face, emerged from the shadows. He was flanked by two nervous looking kitchen boys who sprang to work unloading the wagon.

‘Late, as usual. I shall have a word with the quartermaster about getting a new supplier if this happens again. We’ve only half an hour to prepare and serve breakfast now,’ the fat man said, plucking at his apron strings with his pudgy fingers.

‘It’s not my fault, Mr Mayweather, sir. An officer forced me to bring this noviciate up, which took me half an hour out of my way. Here, boy, tell him,’ the driver spluttered, prodding Fletcher in the small of his back. Fletcher nodded dumbly, the reality of where he was beginning to hit home.

‘All right then. We’ll let this one slide, but you’re on my list,’ Mayweather said with an appraising glance at Fletcher and an even longer look at his demon. Fletcher dismounted as the last of the fruit and vegetables were removed from the back of the wagon and stood, unsure of what he was supposed to do. The driver left without a second glance, eager to be away and on to his next pick up.

‘Do you know where you’re going, lad?’ Mayweather asked gruffly, but not unkindly. ‘You’re not a noble-born, that’s obvious. The commoners have already been here a week and I know all the second years by now. You must be new. Did you turn down the offer to come here, then change your mind?’

‘Arcturus sent me . . .’ Fletcher said, unsure how to answer.

‘Ahh, I see. You must be a special case then. We’ve already got two more of those upstairs,’ Mayweather said, his voice low and mysterious. ‘Though they’re a little stranger than you, I’ll grant you.

‘We don’t get many noviciates brought in personally by a battlemage,’ he continued, stepping closer to peer at Fletcher’s imp. ‘It’s usually the Inquisitors who find the gifted and bring them in. Battlemages rarely enlist any adepts themselves, because it means they have to give away one of their demons to them. They need every demon they can get their hands on at the front lines. Seems strange for Arcturus to give you a rare demon like this one, though. I’ve never seen the like!’

‘Is there someone I need to present myself to?’ Fletcher asked, eager to get away before Mayweather pried further. The more people who knew how Fletcher had become a summoner, the more likely that his whereabouts would get back to Pelt.

‘You’re lucky. The first day starts tomorrow, so you haven’t missed much,’ Mayweather said. ‘The noble-born candidates will arrive tonight; they tend to spend the week before in Corcillum, it’s more comfortable for them there. As for the teachers, they’ll be arriving from the front lines tomorrow morning, so you’re best off speaking to the Provost. He’s the only battlemage that doesn’t spend half the year on the front lines. Go straight ahead through the front doors and one of the supporting staff will let you know where to find him. Now if you’ll forgive me, I have breakfast to prepare.’ Mayweather spun on his heel and waddled away.

Despite the demon nestled around his throat, Fletcher did not feel like he belonged here. The ancient stone spoke of opulence and history. It was not for the likes of him.

Fletcher mounted the wide stairs and pushed through the double doors. Best to find the Provost before breakfast was served; then he could introduce himself to the other students over the morning meal. He was not going to be a loner again.

He stepped into a huge atrium with twin spiral staircases to his left and right, stopping on each floor. Fletcher counted five levels in total, each one bordered by a metal railing. The ceiling was supported by heavy oak beams; massive struts that held the stone above in place. A dome of glass in the ceiling allowed a pillar of light into the centre of the hall, supplemented by crackling torches set in the walls. At the very end of the hallway was another set of wooden doors, but it was the archway above them that drew Fletcher’s eye. The stone was carved with hundreds of demons, each one more breathtaking than the last. The attention to detail was extraordinary, and the eyes of each demon were made up of coloured jewels that sparkled in the light.

It was a huge space, almost wasteful in its design. The marble floors were being polished by a young servant, who gave Fletcher a weary look as he walked his dirty boots over the wet surface.

‘Could you point me in the direction of the Provost?’ Fletcher requested, trying not to look behind him at the footprints he had left.

‘You’ll get lost if I don’t show you,’ the servant said with a sigh. ‘Come on. I’ve got a lot of work to do before the nobles arrive, so don’t dawdle.’

‘Thank you. My name is Fletcher. And yours?’ Fletcher asked, holding out his hand. The servant stared at him with surprise, then shook it with a happy smile.

‘I can honestly say I’ve never been asked that by a student,’ the servant said. ‘Jeffrey is the name, thank you for asking. If you’re quick I’ll show you up to your quarters afterwards, and sort out any laundry for you that you might need doing. Begging your pardon, but from the smell of your garments it seems you need it.’ Fletcher reddened but thanked him all the same. Although he had washed himself the night before, he had forgotten that his clothes still smelled like sheep.

Jeffrey led him up to the first floor on the east side and down a corridor opposite the stairway. The walls were lined with suits of armour and racks of pikes and swords, left over from the last war. Every few steps they would walk past a painting depicting an ancient battle, which Fletcher would have to tear his eyes away from as Jeffrey pulled him onwards.

They passed by a set of large glass cabinets, stacked with jars of pale green liquid. Each one contained a small demon, suspended eternally within.

Finally, Jeffrey slowed down. The servant pointed to a huge mace hung up on the wall. It was studded with sharp stones, each the size and shape of an arrowhead.

‘That’s the war club that belonged to the orc chieftain of the Amanye tribe, taken as a trophy in the Battle of Watford Bridge. It was actually the Provost who struck him down,’ Jeffrey said with pride. ‘A great man, our Provost. Strict as a judge, though. You be careful of him; look him in the eye and don’t backchat. He hates both the spineless and the insolent in equal measures.’

With those words Jeffrey stopped at a heavy wooden door and banged on it with his fist.

‘Come in!’ shouted a booming voice from inside.

17

The room was stiflingly hot compared to the chilled corridors. A blaze crackled in the corner of the dim room, spitting sparks that were sucked up into the flue of the chimney.

‘Shut the damned door! It’s bloody freezing out there,’ the voice boomed again. Fletcher jumped to obey as he noticed a figure sitting behind a large wooden desk in the centre of the room.

‘Let’s be having you, step lively now. And remove that hood from your face. Don’t you know it’s rude to cover your head indoors?’

Fletcher hurried into the room and pulled his hood down, revealing the demon that had taken refuge there soon after Fletcher had set foot in Vocans.

The figure harrumphed and then struck a match, lighting a lamp on the corner of his desk. The glow revealed a walrus of a man with a white handlebar moustache and thick mutton-chop sideburns that dominated his features.

‘I say, that’s a rare demon you’ve got there! I’ve only seen one of those, and that wasn’t on our side, either.’ The man snatched some glasses from the desk and peered at the imp. It shied away at his gaze, causing the old man to chuckle.

‘They’re fragile little things, but powerful. Who gave it to you? I’m supposed to be informed whenever someone manages to summon a demon outside of the usual species,’ the Provost boomed.

‘Arcturus sent me,’ Fletcher said, hoping that answer would be enough.

‘Impress him, did you? We haven’t had a novice brought in by a battlemage for quite some time; two years now, I think. You’re lucky, you know. Most of the commoners are given weaker demons to start off with. Mites, usually. They’re easier to capture and, when we need a new one, a battlemage is chosen at random to provide it. Doesn’t put them in a generous mood, unfortunately. Not the best system, but it’s the only one we’ve got. In any case, I shall be having words with Arcturus about it.’

Fletcher nodded dumbly, earning himself a stern glare.

‘There’s no nodding here. You say “Yes, Provost Scipio, sir”!’ the man barked.

‘Yes, Provost Scipio, sir,’ Fletcher parroted, standing up straight.

‘Good. Now, what do you want?’ Scipio asked, leaning back in his chair.

‘I want to join up, sir; learn to become a battlemage,’ Fletcher replied.

‘Well, you’re here, aren’t you? Be off with you. Registration is tomorrow, you can make it all official then,’ Scipio said, waving him away. Fletcher left, dumbfounded. He was careful to close the door behind him this time. It had all been so easy. Somehow, everything was falling into place.

Jeffrey was waiting for him, an anxious look on his face.

‘Everything OK?’ he asked, leading Fletcher back to the stairs.

‘More than OK. He’s allowed me to join up,’ Fletcher said with a grin.

‘Not surprising. We need every summoner we can find, that’s why we started making all the changes. Girls, commoners, there’s even . . . well . . . you’ll see for yourself. It’s not my place to say,’ Jeffrey muttered. Fletcher decided not to pry, instead being careful not to lose his footing on the dark stairwell.

‘There aren’t many fires or torches here,’ Fletcher observed as they trudged up the steep stairs.

‘No, the budget is strained as it is. When the nobles arrive we will warm the place up. Everything has to be just so for them, or they complain to their parents. Half of them are spoiled little popinjays, but don’t get me wrong, some are nice enough fellows,’ Jeffrey panted, pausing when they reached the fifth and final floor. Fletcher noticed Jeffrey was even skinnier than he was himself, with dark brown hair that contrasted starkly with a pallid complexion that was almost verging on the sickly.

‘Are you all right? You don’t look so well,’ Fletcher asked him. The boy coughed and then took a deep, rattling breath.

‘I have terrible asthma, it’s why they won’t let me join up. But I want to do right by my country, so I serve here instead. I’ll be all right, just give me a second,’ Jeffrey said, wheezing.

Fletcher felt a growing respect for Jeffrey. He had never felt particularly patriotic, with Pelt being so far removed from any major cities, but he admired it in others.

‘I didn’t see Scipio’s demon. What kind does he have?’ Fletcher asked, making conversation as Jeffrey began to breathe more easily.

‘He doesn’t. He used to have a Felid, but it died before he retired. They say it broke his heart when he lost it. Now he just teaches and manages Vocans,’ Jeffrey said.

Fletcher wondered what a Felid might be. Some sort of cat, perhaps?

They walked on past dimly lit corridors to the very corner of the castle, where another staircase spiralled upwards. Jeffrey eyed it with apprehension.

‘Don’t worry, I can manage from here. Just tell me where I need to go,’ Fletcher volunteered.

‘Thank God. You can’t miss it; the commoners’ quarters are at the very top of the southeast tower. I’ll send someone up for your laundry later; for now, there’s a spare uniform in every bedroom upstairs, try a couple on and see which of them fits. You don’t want to be known as the smelly one on your first day,’ Jeffrey said, already hurrying away.

Fletcher resisted the temptation to shout the question that had come unbidden to his mind.
Why did the commoners have separate quarters?
He shrugged it away and began his long journey up the stairs, knowing from what he had seen outside that it was quite a way.

At intervals off the staircase there were wide, round chambers, each one filled with old desks, chairs and benches, amongst other bric-a-brac. The wind whistled through the arrow slits in the walls, chilling Fletcher to the bone and causing him to put his hood up once again. He hoped it would be warmer upstairs.

As he rounded what felt like the thousandth step, he heard a boy’s voice above him.

‘Hang on, that’s one of the servants. I think they’re going to call us for breakfast!’ The boy’s voice reminded him of Pelt, the accent common, and hinting at a rural upbringing.

‘I’m starving! I hope they don’t make us sit in silence like last time,’ a girl’s voice followed.

‘Nah, it’s only because crusty old Scipio was there that they wanted us quiet, but he complained about the cold so much I doubt he’ll break his fast in the canteen again,’ the boy replied.

Fletcher rounded the corner into a large room and almost ran straight into a boy with bright blond hair and the ruddy complexion of a northerner.

‘Whoops, sorry, mate. Guess I spoke too soon. Here, let me help with your bags,’ the boy said, pulling at Fletcher’s satchel. Fletcher unstrapped it and let him carry it to a long table that sat in the middle of the room.

‘Rory Cooper, at your service,’ the boy said, shaking Fletcher’s hand. ‘Welcome to our humble abode.’

It was a round chamber, with a high ceiling and two large doors on either side of the back wall. Paintings of battlemages and their demons lined the walls, the faces stern and disapproving. Fletcher grimaced as a draught from the arrow slits blew across the room.

A fetching looking girl with bright green eyes smiled at him through a mass of freckles and wild ginger hair. A blue, beetle-like demon flickered its wings on the table in front of her. Another of them, with an iridescent green carapace, hovered beside Rory’s head, filling the room with a soft hum.

The demons were larger than any insect Fletcher had ever seen, so large that they would barely fit on a hand. They sported fierce-looking pincers, with an armoured shell that shone like burnished metal. Fletcher’s demon stirred under his hood at their presence, but was not interested enough to come out of hiding.

‘My name’s Genevieve Leatherby. What’s your name?’ the girl enquired, flashing him a welcoming smile.

‘Fletcher. It’s nice to meet you. Is it just the two of you? I thought there would be more of us . . . commoners,’ Fletcher said, hesitating at the term.

‘There’s some more of us downstairs, waiting in the breakfast hall, and the second years eat later than we do, so they are still sleeping. We decided to wait till the servants come and announce it, as the time they serve breakfast hasn’t been very consistent so far,’ Genevieve said wistfully. ‘I thought there would be more students too, when I got here. But there’s only five of us first years, including you. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised, the lack of summoners is the main reason they let women join the army all those years ago—’

Rory interjected. ‘There’s seven if you count the other two. We heard them last night but they haven’t come out of their rooms yet. Don’t know what a laugh they’re missing,’ he said with a wide grin. ‘They’ll come round. Everyone loves me eventually.’

‘Come off it. You’re an annoying little prig if ever I’ve seen one,’ Genevieve teased, pushing him playfully. Rory gave Fletcher a cheeky wink and pointed at the furthest door.

‘Why don’t you introduce yourself? Maybe see if they can join us for breakfast.’