At three feet high, the creature was shaped much like a young child, were it not for its squat profile and hefty arms and legs. Yet what was most fascinating was its colouring. The creature looked as if it was made from misshapen rock, the effect made more striking by a dusting of moss and lichen that grew on its surface. Its hands were like mittens, with a thick opposable thumb that could be used for grasping. With every movement it made, Fletcher could hear the dull rasp of stone against stone.
As the commoners gawked at it, the demon turned around and looked back through a pair of small black eyes that were set deep in its head.
‘A Golem! Those are difficult to capture. The servants said they grow over time, so you have to catch them young,’ Seraph whispered. ‘I hope I get gifted one of them.’
‘Not likely,’ Atlas said. ‘They must have given it to him as a favour to the Dwarven Council, a show of good faith as dwarves are incorporated into the army. I didn’t realise they had been accepted into all branches of the military. God knows what they would ride if any join the cavalry; their little legs would barely be able to grip a horse’s sides!’
Atlas laughed at the thought. Fletcher ignored him, looking at the dwarf sitting hunched and alone. He stood up.
‘What are you doing?’ Rory hissed, snatching at Fletcher’s sleeve.
‘I’m going to introduce myself,’ Fletcher said.
‘Did you see the look he gave us? I think he wants to be left alone,’ Genevieve stammered.
Fletcher pulled out of Rory’s grasp, ignoring them. He had recognised the look of resentment on the dwarf’s face when he walked in. He himself had worn it many times before, back when he had been ostracised by the other village children in Pelt.
As he approached the bench the Golem rumbled threateningly, its craggy face opening to reveal a toothless mouth. The dwarf turned at the noise, a look of apprehension on his face.
‘I’m Fletcher.’ He held out his hand for the dwarf to shake.
‘Othello. What do you want?’ the dwarf replied, ignoring it.
‘Nice to meet you. Why don’t you sit with us? There’s plenty of room,’ Fletcher asked. The dwarf looked at the others, who were staring at them from the other table, their faces full of apprehension.
‘I’m fine here. Thank you for making the effort, but I know I’m not welcome,’ the sullen dwarf muttered, turning back to his meal. Fletcher decided to make one last attempt.
‘Of course you are! You’re going to be fighting the orcs just like the rest of us.’
‘You don’t understand. I’m nothing more than a symbolic gesture. Hominum’s generals don’t mean to let us join the military for real. They sent most of our recruits to the elven front to rot with the chaffed. The King meant well by forcing them to let us join, but the generals are still the ones who decide what to do with us. How can we change their minds when they won’t let us fight?’ Othello murmured, so only Fletcher could hear.
‘Vocans has girls, commoners too. In fact, everyone you see here is a commoner. The nobles are arriving tomorrow,’ Fletcher replied, his heart going out to the unhappy dwarf. He paused for a moment, then leaned closer to the dwarf and whispered.
‘They need adepts, no matter where they come from. There’s even an elf! I don’t think the battlemage division is very picky, as long as you can fight.’
The dwarf smiled at him sadly, then took Fletcher’s hand and shook it.
‘I know about the elf. We had an . . . interesting conversation when we were waiting to be gifted our demons. Anyway, I hope you’re right. I’m sorry for my rudeness earlier; I must sound very jaded,’ Othello said, picking up his tray.
‘Not to worry. I met another dwarf yesterday and he felt much the same as you did. He gave me something,’ Fletcher said, pulling the card he had been given from his pocket.
‘Put that away!’ Othello hissed under his breath as soon as he saw it. Fletcher stuffed it back in his trousers. What was the big deal?
They sat down at the table with the others, their conversation suddenly muffled by the dwarf’s presence. Fletcher introduced them all.
‘Good morning,’ Othello said awkwardly, nodding to everyone. They all nodded back in silence. After a few beats Rory piped up. It seemed to Fletcher that he hated awkward silences.
‘I’ll tell you what, I wish I could grow a moustache like that. Did you always have one?’ Rory said, stroking his own bare face.
‘If you’re asking if I was born with it, no,’ Othello said, cracking a wry smile. ‘It’s our belief that cutting our hair is a sin to the Creator. We are made just as he wished us to be. If he gave us hair, then we must keep it.’
‘Why don’t you let your nails grow too then? Sounds like madness to me,’ Atlas said bluntly, pointing at Othello’s stubby but neatly trimmed fingers.
‘Atlas!’ Genevieve scolded.
‘That’s OK, it’s a fair question. We consider the white part of the nail dead and therefore no longer part of us. Of course it is considered more of a tradition than a religious belief these days: many dwarves trim their beards and hair; some of the younger dwarves even dye it. This is quite common knowledge in Corcillum. Where do you hail from?’ Othello asked in a measured voice.
‘I’m from a village to the west, close by the Vesanian Sea,’ Atlas retorted. ‘Are you from Corcillum originally?’
Othello paused, looking bemused. Seraph answered for him.
‘The dwarves were here before the first man even set foot in this land. They cleared the forests, flattened the earth, diverted the rivers, even put up the great marker stones that map out Hominum’s territory.’
Othello smiled, as if impressed by the young commoner’s knowledge of his people.
‘Mankind moved here two thousand years ago, when they made the long journey across the Akhad Desert.’ Seraph continued, encouraged by the rapt attention of the others. ‘Corcillum was the dwarf capital, so we moved in with them, working and trading. But then a great sickness swept through the city, hitting the dwarves particularly hard. Soon after, our first King took power, with help from what now are the noble families. They were a small group of summoners who controlled powerful demons, far stronger than the demons our modern day summoners control. That is why every royal and noble-born is able to summon; they inherited their ancestors’ abilities.’
‘It is also why we rebelled so often,’ Othello said in a hushed tone. ‘Foolish though it was, with our population so low and no summoners in our ranks. We never recovered our numbers after the sickness, thanks to a law forced on us by your King’s forefathers. We must live in the ghetto and may only have a certain number of children each year. We cannot even own our own land. The royals said we have brought it on ourselves after so many rebellions.’
A sombre mood settled over the others, but Fletcher felt angry, the same anger he had felt at Didric’s injustice. This was . . . inhumane! The hypocrisy of the situation sickened him. So this was what Athol had been talking about. Atlas opened his mouth to speak again, a look of disagreement on his face.
‘So, Seraph, you said you have done your research. Tell us a bit about what we should be expecting over the next few months,’ Fletcher interjected, before Atlas could start an argument.
Seraph leaned forward and beckoned everyone closer, smiling at the opportunity to show off what he had learned.
‘They are very fair here. Commissions are given based on merit, so the better you perform in the exams and challenges, the higher the officer’s rank you are given when you graduate. The problem is that it is weighted against us commoners. The demons we get given are not particularly strong, whilst the demons the nobles receive are from their parents, who take more care to capture powerful ones for their children. Some are even fortunate enough to be given one of their parent’s main demons, but that is rare. Fletcher’s demon I’m not
so sure about – I’ve never seen one of those before. But, Othello, your demon will be very powerful when it is full grown, from what I have heard of Golems.’
‘So . . . we’re always going to only have our Mites?’ Genevieve asked, confused.
‘Not necessarily,’ Seraph answered. ‘It’s possible to capture another, more powerful demon in the ether, and add it to your roster. I don’t know much about how to do that, and apparently it is harder and riskier to do it with a weak demon. I’m hoping for something other than a Mite. They make great scouts and their pincers pack a nasty punch, but their mana levels are quite low and physically they would be no match for even a juvenile Canid.’
‘I see,’ Genevieve said, looking slightly less proudly at Azura as she took off and buzzed around the room. They all watched as she settled on the huge statue in the centre of the hall, crawling on to the stone man’s eye.
‘Who is that anyway?’ Fletcher asked the table.
‘I know,’ Othello said, pointing at the plaque beneath the statue. ‘It is Ignatius, King Corwin’s right-hand man and the founder of Vocans Academy, back when it was nothing more than a tent in a field. He died in the First Orc War a couple of thousand years ago, but he is credited with leading the charge that broke the orc ranks and ultimately led to their defeat.’
‘That’s it,’ Fletcher said under his breath, looking at his imp. It had crawled down his arm and was licking at the remains of the porridge in his bowl with relish.
‘What’s it?’ Rory asked.
‘Ignatius. That’s what I will call my demon.’
20
With breakfast over, the others decided to go back to their rooms for more sleep, but Fletcher was loath to sit in the cold. The conversation over breakfast made him realise how little he knew about Vocans. He was going to find Jeffrey. If Seraph knew so much about Vocans from the servants, he was going to tap that source of information for all it was worth. He was in luck; Jeffrey was still polishing the atrium floor.
‘Care to show me around? There’s not much point in cleaning that floor now, it’s just going to get dirty when the second years come down for breakfast,’ Fletcher said to the tired looking servant.
‘I’m only polishing it so that Mr Mayweather doesn’t yell at me. If I can say I was showing a noviciate round then I’m off the hook! Let’s just take it easy on the stairs this time,’ Jeffrey said, grinning. ‘What would you like to see?’
‘Everything!’ Fletcher said. ‘I’ve got all day.’
‘Then so have I.’ Jeffrey beamed. ‘Let’s go to the summoning room first.’
The room was on the same floor within the east wing. The large steel doors were difficult to open, the screech of rusted hinges echoing around the atrium. Jeffrey took a torch from a sconce outside and led him in, lighting their way with the flickering orange flame. The floor was sticky underfoot, which upon closer examination turned out to be made of heavy strips of leather. There was a large pentacle painted in the middle of the room, the epicentre of a spiral of gradually smaller stars. Each was surrounded by the same strange symbols that Fletcher had seen on the summoner’s book. Perhaps these were the keys that James Baker had written about?
‘Why leather?’ Fletcher asked.
‘The pentacles and symbols need to be drawn on or with something organic, otherwise they don’t work. We used to have wood but it kept burning and needed to be replaced. The Provost decided that leathers were a better idea. It’s worked so far; they smoke and smoulder a bit and it smells something awful, but it’s better than risking a fire every time someone’s demon enters the ether.’
‘I had no idea!’ Fletcher said, examining a row of leather aprons that hung on hooks beside the door.
‘I don’t know much else about this room. You’re better off asking a second year, but I wouldn’t bother. The competition for ranks is fierce, and they don’t like to help first years in case you steal what would have been their promotion. I hate that way of thinking, but the Provost says that it’s brutally competitive on the front lines, so why shouldn’t novices get a taste of that here?’
Jeffrey lingered by the door, refusing to venture any deeper into the room.
‘Let’s go. This place gives me the creeps,’ he muttered.
He led Fletcher out and they trudged up to the second floor of the east wing.
‘This is the library.’ Jeffrey pushed open the first door. ‘Forgive me if I don’t go in. The dust; it’s terrible for my asthma.’
The room seemed as deep and long as the atrium was tall. Row upon row of bookshelves ranged along the walls, full of tomes even thicker than the book that lay at the bottom of Fletcher’s satchel upstairs. Long tables sat between each bookshelf, with unlit candles spaced at intervals along them.
‘There are thousands of essays and theories written here by the summoners of old. Diaries mostly, dating back over the last thousand years or so. This place doesn’t get used much, there is so much work to do already, without the extra reading. But some do come here for tips and tricks, usually the commoners who don’t have the coin to spend in Corcillum on the weekends,’ Jeffrey said leaning against the doorway. ‘They need to catch up anyway; the nobles always know more than they do, growing up with it and all.’
‘Fascinating,’ Fletcher said, eyeing the piles of books. ‘I’m surprised that this room is used so rarely. There must be a treasure trove of knowledge here.’
Jeffrey shrugged and closed the door.
‘I wouldn’t know, but I think the teaching in the school has become far more practical, out of necessity. There is just no time for research and experimentation any more; all they care about is getting you to the front lines as quickly as possible.’
As they walked out, Fletcher saw a string of boys and girls walking through the hall.
‘Those are the second years,’ Jeffrey said, nodding at them. ‘They’ve had a hell of a time this year, the competition for ranks is fiercer than ever. Now that convicts are likely to be drafted into the army, dwarves too, they’re going to need officers. And if the second years don’t perform well, that is who they will be leading into battle . . . or rotting away with on the elven front.’ Fletcher wasn’t sure what would be so bad about leading dwarves into battle, but he wasn’t going to get into a debate with Jeffrey, not when he still had so much to learn.
He stared at the second years as they descended the dark stairs, without their demons. Tiny spheres of light floated around their heads like fireflies, emitting an ethereal blue glow.
‘What are those lights? And where are their demons?’ Fletcher exclaimed, as he and Jeffrey followed them down the steps. The second years ignored him, rubbing their eyes and murmuring amongst themselves.
‘Demons aren’t allowed out other than in your quarters or during lessons, you’ll be told about that once you first years have settled in. Although where the demons go when they aren’t with their summoners I haven’t a clue. As for the lights, they’re called wyrdlights. It’s one of the first skills noviciates learn, I think. In a few days you guys will be zipping those things all over the place.’
‘I can’t wait,’ Fletcher said, eyeing the little blue lights as they floated aimlessly around the atrium. ‘No wonder there’s only one candle in our rooms.’
Jeffrey dragged him away from the atrium and down some stairs beside the entrance to the summoning room.
‘The castle is huge, but the rooms are mostly used as accommodation for the nobles, teachers and servants. The rest are either empty or used as storage, except for a few lecture halls,’ Jeffrey said as their footsteps echoed down the dark steps.
When they reached the bottom of the stairs, the first thing Fletcher noticed was a chain of manacles that were embedded in the wall of a long, dank corridor that stretched into the darkness. As they walked down it, Fletcher could see dozens of cramped, wi
ndowless prison cells, barely a few feet wide.
‘What is this place?’ Fletcher asked, horrified. The conditions for people kept imprisoned there would have been appalling.
‘This part of the castle was built in the first year of the war eight years ago, for deserters. We didn’t know what to expect, so whenever troops were sent to the front lines, we made sure they would bed down here for the night beforehand. That way, they would know what awaited them if they ran away in cowardice. We only ever had a few dozen prisoners in the first two years, or so I’m told. Nowadays, deserters are just flogged when they are caught and then sent back to the front lines.’ Jeffrey ran his hand along the bars as he spoke. Fletcher shuddered and followed him down the long corridor.
He was surprised when the claustrophobic tunnel opened out into an enormous room. It was shaped like the inside of a coliseum, with concentric rings of stairs that also served as seats, encircling a sand-covered enclosure. Fletcher estimated it could easily fit an audience of five hundred.
‘What the hell is this doing here?’ Fletcher asked. Surely there could be no explanation for a gladiatorial arena such as this in the basement of the academy.
‘What do you think, boy?’ came a rasping voice from behind him. ‘Executions, that’s what it was for. To give the soldiers and novices heart whenever we captured an orc, so they could see that they die just like any other creature.’
Fletcher and Jeffrey spun to see a near toothless man with greying hair, leaning on a staff. He was missing his right foot and hand, which had been replaced by a thick peg and wickedly sharp hook. Stranger still, he wore the chain mail armour of the unmodernised army, resplendent in dark green and silver from one of the old noble houses.
‘Of course it was never used. Who ever heard of an orc being captured alive!’ He cackled to himself and held out his left hand, which Fletcher shook.
Summoner: Book 1: The Novice Page 10
