Summoner: Book 1: The Novice (30 page)

49

Fletcher sat in the darkness of the prison cell, his heart fluttering beneath his ribs like a caged bird. He had hoped that he would be able to watch the tournament, but the rules stated that all combatants were to be kept separate. It felt like hours had passed, and the anticipation was torture.

He stared at his hand, tracing the deep black lines that Athol had drawn. In the centre of his palm lay a pentacle, the five-pointed star within a circle. If this worked as he had planned, he would be able to summon and infuse Ignatius simply by pointing his hand, rather than positioning the demon above a summoning leather. He wasn’t too sure how much that would help him in a battle though.

He had left his index finger blank, so that he would be able to etch with it as normal, in case he needed to use another spell. The other fingertips had been tattooed with the four battle symbols of telekinesis, fire, lightning and shield. With any luck, he could shoot mana through each finger without ever having to etch a symbol in the air.

A sudden buzz startled him and Valens hovered into view, gliding through the cage bars and settling on his lap.

‘Come to watch, Captain Lovett?’ Fletcher asked, stroking the beetle’s smooth shell.

Valens waggled his antennae and buzzed cheerfully. Somehow, it made Fletcher feel better.

‘I hope you do watch. It will be nice to have someone cheering for me. Or buzzing.’

Footsteps rang out in the corridor and the beetle shot away, secreting himself in a dark corner of the room.

‘Fletcher.’

It was Sir Caulder, staring at him through the bars of his cell.

‘You’re up.’

Fletcher stood on a wooden platform on the edge of the arena, with his back to the spectators. A large summoning leather was spread in front of him. Both Rory and a second year commoner named Amber stood on their own platforms, at equal distances on either side of him. He could feel the Favershams’ eyes on him, prickling the hairs on the back of his neck. Rory’s gaze was also laden with malice, as if their return to the arena had reminded him of Fletcher’s apparent betrayal. With a shake of his head, Fletcher forced himself to ignore them and turned back to the task at hand.

The battleground had been filled with large, jagged rocks, as if an enormous red boulder had been shattered and scattered across the sand. In the very centre, a giant clay pillar stood, at around thirty feet high. A spiral pathway from the base to the top was wrapped around it like a snake, wide enough to accommodate a horse.

He heard an almost imperceptible hum above his head and looked up. Valens had just flown by, circling around the arena before settling on the concave ceiling, blending into its shadows. Fletcher smiled. Lovett had the best view in the house.

‘The rules of this challenge are simple,’ Rook declared from the sidelines. ‘The first demon to reach the top of the pillar and remain there for ten seconds will win. You will only use the telekinesis spell. You cannot attack your fellow cadets. You cannot leave your platform. If you do, it means instant elimination. Begin!’

Fletcher dropped to his knees and laid his hand on the leather, summoning Ignatius with a blast of mana. He swiped the demon’s back with his scrying stone. The imp gave a chirrup of excitement and then leaped into the arena without a moment’s hesitation.

Across from him, Amber had summoned a Shrike and Malachi was already zipping towards the pillar. Rook had chosen Fletcher’s opponents well – flying demons, one small and hard to target; the other large but hard to knock down. This was not going to be easy.

Fletcher lifted his hand and pointed at Malachi with a tattooed finger.

‘I hope this works,’ he whispered to himself, flooding his body with mana.

The air shivered in a long thin streak, then Malachi was knocked out of the air, tumbling into the rocks below. It had worked!

‘Go, Ignatius, now!’

The Salamander galloped through the rocks, cutting this way and that as Rory and Amber fired at him frantically. The sand erupted around Ignatius. Rocks shattered, sending razor sharp shards exploding like shrapnel. As the demon took a flying leap for the pathway, a kinetic blast from Rory hit him hard and sent him tumbling behind a rocky outcrop near the pillar’s base. Fletcher felt a dull throb of pain, but knew that Ignatius was not too badly injured.

The Shrike had already hopped to the ground, preferring to hide in the rocks than be knocked out of the sky. Fletcher took the opportunity to put on his eyeglass, before Malachi made another break for it.

He could see Ignatius was hidden beneath a concave rock, and that the pathway was close by. But if the Salamander were to run up, he would be too exposed to make it very far. Even if he made it to the top, it was unlikely he would be able to stay there for more than a few seconds.

‘We need to hunt down the other demons, take them out before they get a chance to fly up there,’ Fletcher murmured, sending his intentions to Ignatius. The Salamander growled in agreement, then darted to the next rock, searching from below whilst Fletcher watched from above.

Rory and Amber were also peering at their scrying stones, their eyes switching back and forth between the crystal and the sand like an angry cat’s tail. Fletcher grinned, amazed at how well the eyeglass was working. He could still see with both eyes, with a ghostly, purple-tinged image overlaying his view on the left side of his vision.

Ignatius froze. The Shrike was ahead of him, crouched silently under the overhang of a large rock. It was a small Shrike, around the size of an overgrown eagle, but powerfully built, with shining plumage and fierce talons. Ignatius could take him.

‘Flame,’ Fletcher breathed, feeling the mana roil in his veins.

The Shrike was caught in a whirlwind of fire, crashing against the face of a rock. It cawed and fluttered its wings, but Fletcher blasted it back to the ground before it made it a few feet into the air.

‘That’s one cooked turkey!’ Scipio shouted, as the spectators cheered and booed.

Ignatius leaped on to the smoking Shrike, clawing at it in a frenzy and stabbing with his tail like a scorpion. The Shrike raked back with a talon, gouging Ignatius’s side. Ignatius screeched with pain, then reared back, ready to blast the Shrike with flame.

‘No!’ Amber yelled, leaping from the platform. Ignatius paused, startled by the noise.

‘Don’t hurt him, don’t hurt him,’ she cried, throwing herself over the Shrike’s head.

‘That’s enough, Ignatius. They’re out of the tournament!’ Fletcher shouted.

But Fletcher was not the only one shouting. The crowd behind were roaring, and Fletcher saw that Malachi was on the top of the pillar, peeking over the far ledge.

Ignatius was already racing towards the pillar, but he wasn’t going to make it in time. Fletcher fired a shot, but all it did was knock dust from the top of the pillar. The angle wasn’t right. It would be a miracle if he even managed to graze Malachi.

‘Ten, nine, eight . . .’ Rook shouted.

Fletcher needed to do something drastic. He let the next ball of kinetic energy grow to the size of a grapefruit, gritting his teeth as he pumped it full of mana.

‘. . . Seven, six, five . . .’ Rook continued, barely disguising his glee.

Fletcher howled, holding the expanding ball over his head. He could feel the air above him distorting and shaking. He hesitated, his eyes fixed on Malachi’s fragile frame.

‘. . . Four, three, two . . .’ The pace had quickened now; Rook knew what he was about to do.

Fletcher hurled the ball across the arena with all his might. The pillar’s top shattered like porcelain, blasting Malachi away in a roaring maelstrom of dust and splinters of stone.

‘Nooooo!’ Rory yelled, jumping down and kneeling in the sand. He scooped up the broken body of Malachi from where it lay. The Mite twitched and shuddered, his six legs spasming in the air. Rory sobbed, desperately trying to etch a healing spell in the air.

‘Dame Fairhaven will take care of him,’ Scipio announced, as the crowd began to murmur with sympathy. Dame Fairhaven rushed over and kneeled beside Rory. She etched the heart symbol in the air and began streaming white light over the stricken demon.

‘You’re a monster!’ Rory shouted at Fletcher. ‘He’s dying!’

Fletcher felt his stomach lurch as he saw a patch of dark blood where the Mite had landed in the sand.

‘Come on,’ Sir Caulder said, gripping him by the arm. ‘There’s nothing you can do for him now.’

‘Let me go!’ Fletcher shouted, as Sir Caulder dragged him away. ‘Malachi!’

50

This time, Fletcher was left in a larger cell. It was just as dark and miserable, but he was pleased to find Othello and Sylva in the barred cells on either side. Ignatius chirruped with joy when he set sight on them.

‘You made it!’ Sylva cried, jumping up and grinning at him.

‘Rory almost beat me to it. It was as if that challenge was designed for Mites.’ Fletcher stared at the ground. He still felt guilty, and his mind lingered on Rory and Malachi. The image of the bloodstained sand flashed in his mind, and he felt a wave of nausea rush through him.

‘It
was
designed for Mites. Don’t you see what Rook did?’ Othello growled, clutching the bars between them. ‘He wanted to knock out all the powerful commoners early, by making it easier for the weak ones to beat us. If his plan had worked, the nobles would be fighting Rory, Genevieve and some of the second-year commoners with Mites in the next round. He didn’t separate the commoners and nobles in the first round to be fair. He did it to make it unfair on us!’

‘Well, it’s a good thing he underestimated us,’ Sylva replied, a look of grim determination on her face. ‘I hope Seraph makes it. I saw that he was up against Atlas and a second year, when they walked past my cell.’

‘More like let’s hope Tarquin and Isadora
don’t
make it. With Rook deciding who they fight against, somehow I doubt it,’ Othello muttered darkly.

‘So what’s next?’ Fletcher asked, watching Ignatius lick the wound in his side and wondering whether he should attempt the healing spell. ‘He said something about a sword fight. Athol did me the favour of sharpening my blade last night. But what are we going to do, slice at each other until one gives up?’

‘No; I asked Scipio about that last week,’ Othello explained. ‘The barrier spell protects the skin from being cut. It’s like a very flexible shield that sheathes around your body. It will still hurt like hell, but it blunts the cut, as if a bar of metal is hitting you. Once Rook judges that you have struck a killing or maiming blow, you win.’

‘Rook again. Well, at least he can’t be too unfair with everyone watching,’ Fletcher grumbled, scratching Ignatius under the chin.

‘Hang on, I’ve never heard of this spell. Why haven’t we learned how to use it? I know orcs tend to use blunt weapons anyway, but surely it’s a game changer!’ Sylva exclaimed.

‘Because you need at least four powerful summoners to provide a strong enough barrier,’ Othello explained. ‘Some of the nobility will have to merge their mana and provide a constant stream to you throughout the battle. Other than in a tournament, the spell is almost never used. Except for when the King is on the battlefield, of course.’

‘I see. Well, let’s hope it works; I don’t fancy getting my head cut off tonight,’ Fletcher said, beckoning Ignatius to jump on to his lap.

‘Here, let me heal Ignatius,’ Sylva murmured, noticing Fletcher’s mood.

‘Don’t. You need all your mana to beat the Forsyths in rounds three and four. He’ll be all right,’ Fletcher said, wishing he could perform one himself. Unfortunately, the healing spell glyph was usually very unstable, and Fletcher was a long way from mastering it.

‘Let me have a look at it.’ Fletcher lifted Ignatius closer to his face.

The scratch was shallow, far shallower than Fletcher had expected. In fact, the scratch seemed to be shrinking before his very eyes. He sat and watched with growing amazement as the cut gradually began to seal itself.

‘Bloody hell,’ Fletcher murmured. ‘You are full of surprises.’

Ignatius purred as Fletcher traced the fresh skin with his finger.

‘Someone’s coming,’ Othello said, shrinking back into his cell.

Sir Caulder came into view, leading a happy looking Seraph behind him.

‘I still don’t understand why they keep you in these cells like goddamned criminals,’ Sir Caulder grumbled, unlocking the cell opposite Fletcher for Seraph. ‘The least I can do is give you all some company.’

‘Do you know who’s fighting next?’ Fletcher asked.

‘Aye. It looks like none of the second years have made it to the next round. The pairs are Seraph and Tarquin, Sylva and Isadora, Othello and Rufus, Fletcher and Malik. You’re going to be hard pressed to win, all of ye. Especially you, Fletcher; you’re the first to fight, and Malik was trained by his father. I’ll come and get you in a bit, they’re just organising volunteers for Malik’s barrier spell.’

He limped off, still grumbling, the clack of his peg leg echoing down the corridor.

‘I’ll tell you what, if we hate these cells, imagine how those prissy nobles feel,’ Seraph said cheerfully.

‘I take it you won then?’ Fletcher asked.

‘Of course. Sliver took out Barbarous with a few poison spikes from his back. Atlas was not happy! The second year’s Mite just hid under a rock until it was all over. Whoever was in that last battle really did a number on that pillar! Half the thing was blown off by the time I got to it, not to mention the state of Rory’s Mite! Scared the hell out of that second year!’

‘Is Rory OK?’ Fletcher asked, feeling another pang of guilt.

‘He looked pretty miserable. Malachi was still being treated last I saw him. The losers get to sit with the rest of the spectators, so you’ll see for yourself in a bit. We’ll have a bit of an audience for the next round, that’s for sure,’ Seraph said, still grinning.

‘You need to beat Isadora and Tarquin. That’s what we’re here for. That’s why I almost killed Malachi. Get your game face on,’ Fletcher snapped, rounding on Seraph.

‘I’m sorry,’ Seraph said. ‘I didn’t mean . . .’

The echo of Sir Caulder’s footsteps returned, sending them all into nervous silence.

‘Come on, Fletcher. You’re first up,’ Sir Caulder said in a gruff voice.

He unlocked the cell and, with one last look at the others, Fletcher followed.

‘Remember what I told you, Fletcher. This isn’t a race, this isn’t emotional. Your career is war, and this is just business. Malik knows you are impatient, that your emotions can get the better of you. Good, let him think that’s how you’re going to behave. Use it.’

With those parting words, Sir Caulder pushed him into the arena.

‘Ah, Fletcher. Can I say, we were all very impressed with your performance in that last battle; it surprised us all!’ Scipio placed his hand on Fletcher’s back and propelled him on to the rock-strewn arena. ‘Unusually fast etching, I didn’t see your finger move at all. As for your Salamander, what a show! I’m sure a first-lieutenancy is on the cards, if one of the generals sees the same potential I do!’

Fletcher barely heard his words, instead staring at Rory’s tear-streaked face as he held Malachi to his chest. The demon was flapping his wings weakly, but he appeared to be alive. Relief flooded through Fletcher like a drug.

‘Rory, is he OK?’ Fletcher yelled from across the arena.

‘No thanks to you,’ Rory yelled back. The pain in his voice was obvious, but there was no real anger there, only the remnants of fear.

‘I’m sorry, Rory,’ Fletcher implored, but Rory turned away, fussing over his injured demon.

Despite this, Fletcher felt a lot better. Malachi was going to be fine, and that was what mattered. Rory would come around.

It was only when he saw Malik, scimitar in hand, that he came crashing back down to reality.

‘I need volunteers, to produce the barrier spell for Cadet Wulf!’ Scipio declared to the crowd.

‘My pleasure,’ Zacharias Forsyth shouted. ‘And I believe that the Favershams are also eager to help. Inquisitor Rook, would you join us?’

Fletcher blanched as the Favershams and Zacharias walked down to the edge of the arena. The couple did not bother hiding the hatred in their eyes. Was Scipio really going to allow them to be responsible for his life?

Scipio harrumphed and looked at them suspiciously.

‘While I do respect your willingness to overlook the . . . complexities you have with Fletcher, Lord and Lady Faversham, I must insist that Rook remain focused on judging the tournament. No, I shall take that responsibility.’

‘But my lord,’ Zacharias stuttered. ‘You are . . . retired, are you not?’

‘The King was kind enough to send me a summoning scroll last night.’ Scipio flared a wyrdlight into existence before snuffing it out with his fist. ‘He feels that I will be needed on the orc front soon, and that I have been grieving for far too long. I am inclined to agree with him. I must put the death of my first demon, so many years ago now, behind me and move on. My new Felid kit is still growing, but I am sure with a powerful summoner such as yourself, we will do just fine. Now, pay us no mind, Fletcher. You will feel a slight tingling on your skin, but that is all. We shall take care of everything else.’

The four battlemages joined hands and Scipio began to sketch a complex glyph in the air.

‘Go on, Fletcher,’ Scipio said. ‘Malik is waiting.’