Summoner: Book 1: The Novice

by Taran Matharu

‘Not necessarily. It will be in time, but it was too rare for me to pass up. One of your friends is very lucky to have received it. I had never come across one before. Now, enough questions. Sit down on the floor and close your eyes.’

  They did so, and Arcturus’s steps echoed as he walked behind them. ‘Let your mind go blank. Listen only to the sound of my voice.’

  Fletcher tried to still the excited beating of his heart, listening to Arcturus’s words. The captain’s voice was mellifluous, washing over him like a warm breeze.

  ‘Reach out to your demon, feel the connection between you. Be gentle. This will likely be the first time you have touched it. Don’t worry if you struggle to find it at first, the more you practise the easier it will be.’

  Fletcher did as he asked, searching for the other consciousness that seemed to float on the edge of his mind. He felt the demon’s psyche and, as he touched it, Ignatius twitched in discomfort from around his neck. This was not the pulse of emotion that Fletcher had sent him before, but something else entirely.

  ‘As you grasp it, you will feel the demon’s mana flow through you. You must take it and focus it all through the index finger of your dominant hand. For now, that is all you must do.’

  Fletcher felt that feeling of clarity suffuse his body once again, even stronger than when he had summoned the demon in the graveyard. It raged through him like a hurricane, and he could feel his body shaking.

  ‘Through your finger, Fletcher! You are taking too much! Control yourself!’ Arcturus shouted. His voice sounded a long way away.

  Fletcher took a deep breath and exhaled through his nose, raising his finger and channelling the current to it. As he did so, his finger tingled and felt both burning hot and freezing cold, all at once. The black behind his eyelids turned to a dim blue.

  ‘Open your eyes, Fletcher,’ Arcturus said, putting a steadying hand on Fletcher’s shoulder. He realised he was breathing heavily and calmed himself, then opened his eyes with trepidation.

  The tip of his finger was a blue that shone so bright, it verged on white. As he moved his finger, it left a trace of light in the air, like the afterimage of a burning cinder being waved in the dark.

  ‘I said through your finger, Fletcher, not to it,’ Arcturus said, but there was a hint of pride in his voice.

  ‘Will I be OK?’ Fletcher asked, horrified as he traced a figure eight in the air. The others had by now opened their eyes, obviously having taken far longer than Fletcher to harness their demon’s mana. Before he became big headed, Fletcher reminded himself that he had been with his demon for over a week longer than they had.

  ‘You have managed something that we are several lessons away from; the art of etching. Watch closely.’

  Arcturus lifted his own finger and the tip glowed blue. He drew a strange triangular symbol, made up of jagged lines. He moved his finger around in front of them and the symbol followed it, as if it were attached by an invisible frame. Just as it began to fade, he fired threads of wyrdlight through the gap between his finger and the symbol. Yet when it passed through, a stream of ghostly, opaque tendrils emerged, forming a circular shield in front of him that Fletcher recognised as the very same that had saved his life just two days ago on the streets of Corcillum.

  ‘When we use our mana without a symbol, it becomes nothing but wyrdlight, otherwise known as raw mana. But when you etch a symbol and channel your mana through it, the more useful aspects of a battlemage’s tool chest become available. It is not easy; it takes time and practice to create a shield like mine, rather than a misshapen mass. Even forming a ball of wyrdlight will take a while for you to master.’

  Fletcher’s finger faded back to pink and he hugged it to his chest. Ignatius purred and leaped to the ground. The demon licked at Fletcher’s finger with a triangular tongue that was surprisingly soft, soothing the strange tingling he still felt on his fingertip.

  ‘So what did we miss?’ Seraph’s joyful voice rang out from behind them.

  Fletcher turned to see Seraph, Atlas and Captain Lovett walking out of the summoning room. They had their demons with them.

  Seraph was grinning like a madman, his happiness complete. His demon crawled along the ground beside him, its lumbering gait and stature putting Fletcher in mind of an overgrown badger. Yet that was where the similarity ended. The creature was covered in rough skin that appeared like bark, with a layer of mildew dusted over the top. A thick ridge of spines ran along its backbone, each one an inch long and as sharp as a surgeon’s knife. They reminded Fletcher of the thorns from a gorse bush, vicious green blades that easily punched through the skin.

  ‘What is it?’ Rory breathed in wonder as it ran ahead of them and sniffed at Arcturus’s boots in recognition. Its short pug snout opened to reveal a strange, ridge-filled mouth. Fletcher could see the pulped remains of leaves within, which were subsequently swallowed with the help of a leathery brown tongue.

  ‘It’s a Barkling,’ Arcturus replied. ‘They are masters of camouflage, hence why it is so rare to come across one. You will have trouble feeding it; they need to get through at least a pound of leaves a day. I’m sure Major Goodwin will teach you all of this in your demonology lessons.’

  Arcturus looked at the demon with mixed emotions, then rubbed its head with some reluctance. Seraph caught up and gave Arcturus a grateful smile.

  ‘I would have dearly loved to keep this for myself and capture another demon for you, Seraph, but the wily creature shot Sacharissa full of splinters from its back when she got close to it. She was too injured to make a second trip into the ether. Poor girl almost couldn’t hold it down once she’d dragged it through the portal. I had barely enough time to perform the harnessing. It is too late to capture another now. I wish you well of it.’

  ‘Thank you so much, sir!’ Seraph exclaimed, scooping the demon up into his arms and wincing at the weight. ‘You have no idea how much this means to me. I will name him Sliver.’

  Atlas had been lingering behind, a smile plastered across his face. His demon was the size of a large dog, with thick, bristling fur and two sharp incisors that jutted from the front of its mouth. It looked like an enormous, bucktoothed otter, but for a ratlike tail with a spiked ball on the end, in the shape of a morningstar. It was incredibly agile, almost flowing along the ground as it circled Atlas’s feet.

  ‘Mine is a Lutra. I called him Barb, after his tail!’

  ‘Barb,’ Arcturus remarked. ‘You might want to think a while on that. It is not a . . . traditional demon name. Why not Barbarous? I know of at least one other demon that goes by that name.’

  ‘Perfect!’ Atlas replied, sweeping the demon into his arms.

  Captain Lovett had disappeared back inside the summoning room, but not before Fletcher glimpsed a flash of brown feathers as the door was closed shut. He wondered what it could be. It appeared that there were more species of demons available to Hominum’s summoners than he had thought.

  As Arcturus took a breath to continue the lesson, Fletcher held up his hand. There was one thing he had to know.

  ‘Where is Sacharissa now, sir? And where are the nobles’ demons? Are they sitting in their rooms, waiting for them?’ he asked, his curiosity finally reaching a boiling point.

  ‘Do you know what infusion is?’ Arcturus asked, giving him a level look. Fletcher shook his head.

  ‘Infusion is when a summoner absorbs a demon into themselves, allowing them to heal and rest. The summoner can still communicate with their demon and even use mana, but it remains within them, out of way. When orc javelins are raining down around you, infusion is the best defence for your demon. You will learn how to do it in your summoning lesson with Captain Lovett tomorrow. I specialise in spellcraft, so it is not my place to teach you infusion. Is that answer enough?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Thank you.’

  As Arcturus turned away and began
etching another symbol in the air, Fletcher reached for his shoulder, stroking Ignatius. He could feel the flesh and bone beneath his fingertips. Infusion. He would believe that when he saw it.

  25

  The group was boisterous when they left their lesson, laughing and smiling as they made their way up the stairs. Fletcher, Othello and Seraph were the only ones who had been able to create wyrdlights; small but serviceable ones, that floated by their shoulders. The others had managed to project a thread of blue light, but were unable to find the focus to form the ball. In spite of this, their first taste of spellcraft had been exhilarating, and Rory and Genevieve were not the sort to be jealous of their friends. Even Atlas was rubbing Barbarous’s head with a happy smile plastered across his face.

  ‘I’m going to practise wyrdlight control in my room,’ Seraph announced as they reached their chambers. ‘I could push it about, but I’ll never keep it as still as Arcturus did!’

  He disappeared into the boys’ chambers, Sliver following in his wake. There was no sign of Sylva, once again having disappeared. Fletcher was not sure why she had been allowed to skip the first lesson, but he was eager to make amends.

  ‘I wonder if we should have waited,’ Rory said in a morose voice, looking at Malachi in a different light.

  ‘I love Azura to bits, but I can’t help thinking that we are going to struggle now. If Arcturus finds it difficult to capture a new demon, what hope do we have?’ Genevieve mumbled in agreement. Fletcher could think of little to lighten their spirits, yet it was the usually taciturn Othello who spoke next.

  ‘You might not be able to capture a demon as powerful as a Barkling yet, but maybe you could capture another Mite. Living so close to the front lines, one hears things about the different kinds of battlemage. Some have one powerful demon that is difficult to control, whilst others have many smaller imps, as the orc shamans do. Would you not prefer to send a swarm of Mites at your enemies? You might even be able to send several Mites into the ether and use their combined strength to bring a more powerful demon back,’ Othello said, scratching his chin.

  ‘Hey, you’re right,’ Rory said, an enormous grin on his face. ‘Imagine a thousand little Malachis. That would be something to see!’

  Seraph walked back into the room, brandishing a sheet of paper in one hand and a small cloth bag in the other.

  ‘Look at these!’ He displayed what turned out to be a timetable in front of them. ‘Just three all-day lessons a week after breakfast, with optional arms training in the basement on the fourth day. The rest is free study! We can do whatever we want for the rest of the time.’

  Rory laughed and slapped the table, sending Malachi flying away with a reproachful buzz.

  ‘Whoops!’ Rory said, holding out his palm for the aggrieved insect to land on. He gave him a light kiss on its green carapace.

  ‘That’s not all! They paid us what’s left of our first month’s wages. Who needs university when you can join the military and get paid to study?’ Seraph said, jingling the bag. ‘There’s sixty shillings in here.’

  ‘I think a trip to Corcillum is in order!’ Genevieve exclaimed, her face lighting up with a bright smile. ‘That’s more than my mother earned in a month and she worked all day long. Let’s go after lunch.’

  ‘I could definitely do with visiting a tailor,’ Fletcher agreed, fingering the ragged hem of his shirt collar.

  ‘My family will be worried about me. I would welcome the chance to let them know I have . . . some friends here.’ Othello tugged at his beard shyly.

  ‘It’s agreed then. Who said that we wouldn’t have the coin to go to Corcillum? It will probably cost us an arm and a leg to get there, but it will be worth it,’ Seraph said, rushing back to his room.

  Footsteps echoed on the stairs behind them, followed by the sound of voices.

  ‘Who could that be?’ Fletcher wondered out loud.

  ‘So you see . . . they’ve stuck me in with the commoners when my blood is as pure as yours. It’s an absolute disgrace! I’m sure if you talk to the Provost on my behalf I can move in next to you.’ It was Sylva, followed by Isadora and the other noble girl.

  ‘Ugh, this place is smaller than my bathroom,’ Isadora sniffed, wrinkling her perfect nose as if she could smell something foul in the room.

  ‘I know! You should see my bedroom. Let me show you,’ Sylva said, trying to drag Isadora towards the girls’ quarters. Isadora stopped and looked at the group, narrowing her eyes when they settled on Othello.

  ‘Hang on,’ she said, stamping a delicate foot. ‘It’s time I told these commoners how things are going to go down this year.’

  Isadora stalked around them like a mountain lion on the hunt. She exuded an easy confidence that put Fletcher on edge.

  ‘Here’s what’s going to happen. You commoners are going to keep your heads down and not give the nobles any trouble. When it comes to the tournament this year, you will all bow out in the first round and let your betters take their rightful places. After all, it is our taxes that fund the King’s army and then we pay for our own noble battalions. It’s only fair that we lead the soldiers that our families pay for. You have no right and no chance of becoming a senior officer. You just don’t have the breeding. So stay out of our way and we might just let one of you serve as our lieutenant. Sound good?’ She smiled sweetly when she had finished speaking, as if she had just paid them a compliment. Fletcher was the first to speak.

  ‘Sounds like you’re scared of a little competition,’ he said, stretching with exaggerated nonchalance. The others remained silent, wondering what the girl would do next. Isadora pouted like a spoiled child, a strange contrast to the self-assured she-devil of just moments ago.

  ‘Rare does not equal powerful. Remember that, Fletcher,’ she hissed in his ear.

  As she straightened, Seraph came back into the room and smiled at the sight of the girls.

  ‘Lovely, nobody told me we had guests. Welcome to our humble abode! We haven’t been introduced. I’m Seraph Pasha.’

  Isadora gave him a look of pure disgust, and then strode off down the stairs, ignoring Sylva, who was halfway to her room. The elf glared at Fletcher as if he were at fault, then rushed after her. The brunette stood indecisively in the stairwell, biting her lip at Seraph, whose face was a picture of incredulity.

  ‘I’m sorry about that,’ she said in an almost imperceptible voice.

  ‘Come on, Penelope!’ Isadora’s voice shouted from below. The girl turned and left, the back of her neck flushed red.

  ‘Nice to meet you,’ Rory called, as she disappeared from sight.

  ‘What the hell was all that about?’ Seraph asked, slumping into a chair.

  ‘She was feeling us out, wanted to see if we were pushovers. Guess she was wrong,’ Othello said, his fists clenched with anger.

  ‘What is Sylva doing cosying up to the nobles?’ Genevieve asked, equally distressed.

  ‘I guess as a chieftain’s daughter she considers herself a noble too,’ Fletcher said, the half-formed apology now gone from his thoughts. Although Isadora and Tarquin seemed to be the source of all the noble superiority so far as he could see, the fact that Sylva had jumped on that bandwagon did not place her in his good graces.

  ‘Come on, get your stuff together – let’s skip lunch and go to Corcillum now,’ Fletcher said.

  ‘Good thinking. I’ve lost my appetite,’ Othello replied, shaking his head with disappointment.

  26

  A carriage to Corcillum would have cost an extortionate six shillings per person, but Othello knew of a town a bit further down the main road that might be cheaper. Half an hour’s walk and another ten minutes of negotiation later and the group had found transport on the back of a horse-drawn cart for one shilling each. They purchased a basket of apples for another shilling and munched into them, enjoying t
he sweet tartness. Even the shower that beat down on them could not dampen their spirits as they laughed and tried to catch the raindrops in their mouths. Atlas’s Lutra enjoyed the rain the most, yapping and rolling on the wet boards of the cart.

  They were dropped on the main road, which was thronging with vendors and customers despite the downpour. As they huddled in a street corner, people stared at their demons and uniforms, some smiling and waving, others hurrying past with fear in their eyes.

  ‘I want to go to the perfumery,’ Genevieve said, as two girls walked by under pink parasols. They wafted an exotic fragrance that reminded Fletcher of the mountains. His stomach twisted as he realised how little he had thought of Berdon over the past few days. He needed to get in contact to let him know everything was OK.

  ‘I need to run some errands, send some messages, that sort of thing. Othello, do you know someone who might be able to make a scabbard for my sword?’ Fletcher asked.

  ‘Sure . . . as long as you don’t mind stopping by my family home on the way,’ the dwarf replied, tugging on his beard in excitement.

  ‘Why not? I haven’t been to the Dwarven Quarter yet. Are there tailors there too?’ Fletcher asked.

  ‘The best in Hominum,’ Othello said firmly.

  ‘Well, someone has to come with me to the perfumery. I can’t go alone,’ Genevieve wheedled as more young ladies walked past. Seraph’s eyes lit up at the sight of them, and he volunteered without hesitation.

  ‘I’ll go. Perhaps there is some cologne that will help me melt Isadora’s cold heart,’ he said with a wink.

  ‘Rory? Are you with us or them?’ Fletcher asked.

  ‘I think I’ll go with Genevieve. It would be interesting to see what they do with all the flowers. My mother collects mountain flowers and sells them to perfume merchants,’ Rory said, with a sidelong look at the pretty girls walking by. Fletcher was sure Rory’s motive was based on more than the art of scent making, but he didn’t blame him. It was only two days ago that he had been awestruck by the beauty of Corcillum’s girls and their painted faces. Atlas had already begun to wander down the street, but Fletcher assumed he would not want to come with them to the Dwarven Quarter, given his animosity towards Othello.