Summoner: Book 1: The Novice (12 page)

22

The moon was full and bright in the cloudless sky. Fletcher shivered and pulled at his uniform’s collar; it was the only clothing that hadn’t been taken away for cleaning. Still, he had to wear something; it was freezing in the room and the tattered blanket on his bed did little to keep him warm. He leaned out of the glassless window and into the cold night air, thinking on the day.

The elf had remained in her room, which had suited Fletcher just fine. The rest of the group had been cheerful during lunch and dinner, eager for tomorrow and what wonders it would bring. Fletcher found that he enjoyed the company of the others, although the tension between Atlas and Othello left a strained undertone to the otherwise cheerful evening. He was particularly drawn to Seraph, whose clear charisma and knack for storytelling had everyone hanging on to his every word. Rory’s happy-go-lucky attitude had also endeared him to Fletcher, and although her efforts at salvaging his uniform had been in vain, he had found Genevieve to be a kind person with a dry sense of humour.

It was strange to know that they would all be risking their lives in the hot jungles of the south in just a few years. Although Fletcher tried to avoid thinking about it, the others were eager for battle. Genevieve was the only one who did not openly flaunt her wish to fight, although she spoke of the orcs with a dark fury that belied tragic experience.

Fletcher knew he should go to sleep, yet he felt too exhilarated to do so. Even the usually lazy Ignatius had caught his mood, playfully chasing his tail in the darkness of the room.

Fletcher held out his candle for Ignatius to light, then went out into the common room. As he entered, he saw a fading light in the stairwell, with the sound of hasty footsteps echoing from below.

‘Come on, Ignatius, looks like we aren’t the only ones who can’t sleep,’ Fletcher said. If it was going to be a restless night, he might as well have company.

The corridors were eerie at night, the chill draughts of air whistling through the arrow slits that peppered the outside of the castle. Fletcher’s candle flame flickered with each gust, until he had to cup it with one hand to keep it from going out.

‘I could do with one of those flying lights right now, don’t you think, Ignatius?’ he whispered.

The shadows shifted unnaturally as he moved down the corridor, the dark slits of every suit of armour staring at him as he walked past.

It seemed strange that whoever was ahead was moving so quickly, their pace closer to a jog than a midnight stroll. Fletcher hurried to keep up, his curiosity getting the better of him. Even when he reached the atrium, all he saw was the dim light and a swish of cloth as a figure darted out through the main entrance.

The courtyard was silent as a grave and twice as eerie when Fletcher set foot outside, but there was no sign of the mysterious person. He walked to the drawbridge and peered out at the road, looking for the candlelight. As he stared into the wavering gloom, he began to hear the steady clop of hoofbeats on the ground, coming towards the castle.

Fletcher darted into a small room built into the drawbridge’s gatehouse, blowing out the candle and pressing himself against the cold stone wall. Whoever it was, Fletcher didn’t want their first impression of him to be that of someone who liked to sneak around in the dead of night.

He quelled Ignatius’s excitement, impressing on him the need for silence with a stern thought. He remembered what happened the last time he had been in a cold stone room, hiding in the dark. At that memory, the imp responded with agreement and even a hint of what felt like regret. Fletcher smiled and scratched Ignatius’s chin. The imp understood more than he thought!

The chirr of spinning wheels and the crack of whips announced the arrival of carriages, rumbling as they crossed the old drawbridge. Fletcher peered through a chink in the stone of the room, hugging his arms to his chest for warmth. Was it the nobles? Perhaps one of the teachers was arriving early?

There were two carriages, both ornately decorated with golden trimming and lit by crackling torches. Two men rode on top of each, wearing dark, brass-buttoned suits and peaked caps that put Fletcher in mind of the Pinkertons’ uniforms. All of them carried heavy blunderbusses in their hands, ready to blast buckshot into anyone who ambushed their convoy. Precious cargo indeed.

The doors opened and several figures got out, wearing perfectly tailored versions of the Vocans uniform. In the dim glow of the torches it was hard to see their faces, but the one closest stepped in clear view.

‘Oh, dear,’ he said to the others in a posh, drawling voice. ‘I knew this place had gone to the dogs, but I didn’t think it was going to be this bad.’

‘Did you see the state of it, Tarquin?’ said a girl from the shadows. ‘It’s a wonder we made it over the drawbridge.’

Tarquin was a handsome boy with chiselled cheekbones and angelic blond hair that fell in curls down to the nape of his neck. Yet his blue-grey eyes seemed to Fletcher as hard and cruel as any he had seen before.

‘This is what happens when you let the riffraff in,’ Tarquin stated with a contemptuous sneer. ‘Standards are slipping. I’m sure when Father was here this place was twice what it is now.’

‘Still, at least the commoners can be given the commissions we don’t want,’ the girl said, out of Fletcher’s sight.

‘Yes, well, that is the silver lining,’ Tarquin said in a bored sounding voice. ‘The commoners can have the criminals and, if, heaven forbid, they allow dwarves to serve as officers, then they can command the half-men too. Keep everyone in their rightful place, that’s the way to do it.’

A girl stepped out from the gloom and stood beside him, squinting at the tall castle in front of them. She could have been Tarquin’s twin, with razor sharp cheekbones and cherubic hair curled in delicate blonde ringlets.

‘This is a disgrace. How can every noble child in Hominum be forced to live here for two years?’ she asked out loud, tucking an errant strand behind her ear.

‘Dear sister, this is why we are here. The Forsyths have not set foot in Vocans since father graduated. We are going to show this place how real nobles are meant to be treated,’ Tarquin replied. ‘Speaking of which, where are the servants? Be a dear and fetch them for us, would you, Isadora?’ he joked, pushing his sister towards the entrance.

‘Ugh! I’d rather have my head shaved than spend one second in the servants’ quarters,’ she spat.

With those words the side door opened and Mayweather, Jeffrey and several other servants stumbled out, many still rubbing sleep from their eyes.

‘My apologies for our lateness, my lord,’ Mayweather said in a humble voice. ‘We had thought you would be arriving in the morning when you did not arrive before the eleventh bell.’

‘Yes, well, we decided that Corcillum’s drinking houses were a far more enticing place to be tonight than this . . . establishment,’ Tarquin said icily, then pointed at Jeffrey. ‘You, boy, take my bags up to my quarters and be careful with them. The contents are worth more than you’ll make in your lifetime.’

Jeffrey hastened to obey, giving the golden-haired nobles an awkward bow as he passed them.

‘Let me show you to your quarters, my lord. Follow me, both of you,’ Mayweather said, waddling up the steps as the servants unloaded the carriages. Fletcher caught a glimpse of the two nobles following Mayweather, then his view was obscured as the carriages wheeled around and thundered out of the courtyard.

Soon Fletcher was alone again, filled with disgust at what he had just witnessed. He had always pictured nobles as generous and fair, leading their own men to fight in the war and giving up their adolescent children to serve as battlemages. He knew that many of the nobility of fighting age risked their lives every day on the front lines, leaving their families at home. But he had found these spoiled brats to be the complete opposite of what he had expected. He hoped that not all the noble-born novices would be like the two specimens he had just encountered.

Fletcher waited a few minutes, then snuck out of the gatehouse, making his way back to the main entrance in the shadows of the courtyard walls. Just before he stepped into the moonlight, he heard a creak from the drawbridge behind him.

He spun round to see a figure just before it vanished out of sight, running down the road. A figure with long red hair.

23

The nobles arrived late for breakfast, sitting on the other side of the room and completely ignoring the group of commoners. Tarquin and Isadora led the way, clearly having established themselves as the ringleaders, although the casual backslapping and guffawing made Fletcher think that most of the nobles already knew one another.

‘Why are they ignoring us?’ Atlas asked, looking over his shoulder as the nobles began to make loud comments about the poor quality of the food.

‘This is normal,’ Seraph said matter of factly. ‘The nobles always stay separate from the commoners. I snuck past one of their rooms the other day. They’re the size of our entire quarters and then some!’

‘I don’t think it should be this way,’ Rory said. ‘Are we not going to be living together for the next two years? There are only five of them. Surely they will get bored of each other’s company?’

‘I doubt it,’ Fletcher ventured. ‘One of the servants told me that the nobles often spend their free time in Corcillum. It is us who will be stuck in this castle with little to do. Our best bet will be to befriend some of the older commoners.’

Even as he spoke, a dozen second years began to stream into the hall, talking loudly. They split into two groups and sat on separate tables, but unlike the first years, the two cliques seemed to be talking to each other with no clear animosity. Yet judging by the quality of their uniforms, Fletcher suspected the table divide was between nobles and commoners once again.

‘They’re down for breakfast early,’ Seraph commented as both tables of second years looked them up and down, with special attention placed on Othello. One of them nudged another and pointed at Ignatius and the Golem, who Othello had named Solomon. The dwarf shifted and lowered his head over his meal, uncomfortable under their gaze.

‘I wish we could have breakfast at the same time as they do every day. There’s enough room for hundreds of us to eat in here.’ Genevieve yawned, resting her head in her hands. Fletcher eyed her red hair with suspicion. Was she the figure he had seen leaving Vocans last night?

As the servants finished laying out breakfast for the new arrivals, the room suddenly hushed. Looking up from his meal, Fletcher saw the Provost stride into the room, followed by two men and a woman who were dressed in officers’ uniforms. With a start, he recognised one of them to be Arcturus, his milky eye staring resolutely ahead. The man showed no sign of recognition. The elf girl strode in behind them, causing a stir. She walked with her head high to a seat further down from the commoners’ table. Her Canid curled beneath her, its bushy tail stiffening as it glared around the room protectively.

The four officers stood with their arms crossed and stared at the room until absolute silence had fallen.

‘Welcome to Vocans! I trust you have all settled in,’ Provost Scipio announced gruffly through his bristling moustache. ‘You are privileged to be the latest generation of students to grace the hallowed halls of Vocans Academy.’ Fletcher looked around, counting the other novices. The second years numbered twelve students, the same as them.

‘Our traditions date back to the first King of Hominum, over two thousand years ago,’ Scipio continued. ‘And though we are few in number, the battlemages that graduate from this institution go on to serve as the finest officers in the military, whether it be at the King’s pleasure or under the banner of one of our great noble houses.’

Fletcher saw Tarquin lean in and whisper to Isadora, whose tinkling laugh rang out across the room. He was not the only one to notice. Scipio’s face reddened with anger, and he pointed at the young noble.

‘You, stand up! I will not abide rudeness, not from anyone, noble or otherwise! Stand up, I say, and give account of yourself.’

Tarquin stood up, yet he seemed unshaken by the Provost’s anger. He dug his thumbs into the pockets of his trousers and spoke in a clear voice.

‘My name is Tarquin, the first in line for the Dukedom of Pollentia. My father, Duke Zacharias Forsyth, is the general of the Forsyth Furies.’ He grinned as the second years began to murmur when they recognised his family name. Clearly his father was one of the oldest and most powerful nobles in Hominum. Fletcher recognised the name Pollentia, a large, fertile tract of land that ran from the Vesanian Sea to the centre of Hominum.

Scipio remained silent, looking at Tarquin expectantly under two bushy white eyebrows. Tarquin waited for a few moments until the silence weighed heavily on the room. Finally, he spoke.

‘I apologise for my rudeness. I was only saying to my sister that I am . . . proud to be part of this fine institution.’

‘It is only out of respect for your father that I don’t send you up to your room like a child,’ Scipio harrumphed. ‘Sit back down and keep your mouth shut until I have finished speaking.’

Tarquin inclined his head with a smile and sat down, unfazed by the exchange. Fletcher was not sure whether it was confidence or arrogance that gave the boy his dauntless attitude, but he suspected the latter. Scipio stared at Tarquin for a while longer, then turned to the three officers behind him.

‘These are your three teachers; Major Goodwin and Captains Arcturus and Lovett. You will treat them with the respect they deserve and remember that whilst they are here educating you, good soldiers on the front lines suffer without their leadership or protection.’

Fletcher examined the two teachers he did not recognise. Captain Lovett was a raven-haired woman with cold eyes and a strict appearance, yet when she smiled at the noviciates as her name was announced, her face lost all of its harshness. Major Goodwin looked almost as old as Scipio, with a large, portly figure and a thick white goatee. He sported a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles that rested on a red nose that hinted at a penchant for hard liquor.

‘Now, you second years must be wondering why you have been called down early,’ Scipio announced, causing the bored-looking second years to sit up in their seats. ‘I have an announcement that concerns you all. It may not be a particularly popular decision that we have made, but it is one made out of necessity. In the final exams and tournaments this year, both first years and second years will take part. Should any first year acquit themselves to a high standard, then they too shall be offered a commission and sent to the front lines a year early, where they are sorely needed.’

Immediate uproar ensued, but it was quelled with a bellow from Scipio. He held up a hand as the muttering continued.

‘I understand that this increases the competition for the few high-level commissions on offer for you second years. I remind you that you have had a year’s head start. Should one of the first years beat you, you don’t deserve the commission at all.’

Fletcher frowned at the announcement. So much for befriending the older commoners.

‘As for the first years, you may be worrying that you will be given poor commissions this year, when you might have been given better if you’d stayed on next year. To counteract this, you will only be given good commissions of a First Lieutenancy or higher, with the optional choice of a less prestigious Second Lieutenancy should you decide to take it. The winner of the tournament shall be given a Captaincy, the highest an untested battlemage can achieve.’

This received more muttering from the second years. Fletcher suspected that they would have been happy for the first years to take part if they would be filling all the second lieutenancies, the lowest and most common of ranks.

‘The King has offered an added incentive to this year’s tournament. The winner will also receive a place on the King’s council and be given the right to vote on matters of state. He wishes to have a representative that comes from the next generation of battlemages. If a commission as a high-ranking officer doesn’t motivate you, I know this will,’ Scipio announced, giving the room a solemn look.

Fletcher saw Othello clench his fists as Scipio spoke, though whether it was the council seat, the commission or both that had affected him, Fletcher couldn’t tell. Tarquin and Isadora were especially incensed by Scipio’s revelation, whispering excitedly despite a warning glare from Arcturus.

‘Which divisions will the commissions be in? Will the first years be at equal risk of being put in the dwarven and criminal battalions?’ asked a tall, second-year commoner, standing up from his table.

Othello bristled at the implication, but Scipio beat him to the punch.

‘You’ll go in whatever division you’re damned well put in! And don’t speak out of turn!’ the Provost roared. The boy sat down hurriedly, despite dissatisfied murmurs at the answer. Scipio seemed to relent at the grim faces that stared at him from around the room.

‘They’ll have just as much chance as you do. That’s all I will say on the matter,’ he said.

A dainty hand was thrust into the air and the fingers fluttered for attention. Scipio rolled his eyes and gave an irritated nod. Isadora stood and curtsied prettily.

‘Excuse me for interrupting, Provost Scipio sir, but what is
she
doing here?’ she said, pointing an accusatory finger at the elf.

‘That was the next announcement I was going to make,’ Scipio said, walking over to the silver haired girl. ‘The peace talks between Hominum’s envoys and the elves’ various clan chieftains have been a long struggle, but recently we have had a breakthrough. Instead of paying the tax, the elves plan to join the fight themselves, sending their own warriors to be trained as soldiers, just as the dwarves have done.’

As he mentioned the dwarves, Scipio gave a respectful nod to Othello, who gave him a level nod back.

‘But there is still a lot of distrust, as is to be expected,’ Scipio continued, walking back to the entrance to stand by the other teachers. ‘So, in an act of good faith, a chieftain’s daughter has been sent to train as a battlemage, the first of many elves that we hope will be incorporated into our military over the next few years.’

He gave the elf a forced smile.

‘Her name is Sylva Arkenia, and you should all make her feel as welcome as possible. We were never really enemies with the elves, though it may have felt that way. Let us hope this is the first step in a long and fruitful alliance.’

Sylva’s face remained expressionless, but Fletcher noticed Sariel’s tail wagging under the table. He wondered at the courage of this young girl, to leave her country and home to fight in a war that was not her own, amongst people who distrusted her ilk. As he planned his apology to her, Scipio’s voice cut in once again.

‘Now, be off with you. Lessons start in a few minutes. Oh, and Fletcher,’ Scipio said, turning his eyes towards him. ‘Come and see me in my office. Immediately.’