‘We just got a bit overexcited,’ Othello admitted, picking up his axe and brushing the sand off.
He swung it with practised ease, spinning it in the air before slamming it into the sand beside him.
‘Well, you’ve improved a lot since we started training, I’ll give you that,’ Sir Caulder conceded. ‘But Sylva and Fletcher have already advanced to an exceptional level of swordsmanship. I expect you two might be a match for some of the nobles by now, but it will take a lot more work to surpass them. Good is not good enough.’
Sir Caulder glared at the pair for a while longer, then stomped off towards the arena exit.
‘Sparring lessons are done for today. You can practise your spellcraft down here if you like, I won’t stop you.’
The clack of his peg leg against stone faded until he had left the arena.
‘Well, that’s the most praise I’ve heard out of him,’ Seraph observed, picking his broadsword up from the ground. ‘Still, plenty of time to improve; we have a couple of months yet. I’m more worried about next week’s demonology exam. With all this training, I fall asleep as soon as I open my books!’
‘We’ll be fine,’ Othello insisted. ‘I’m yet to see a noble set foot in the library and even Rory, Genevieve and Atlas spend most of their time in Corcillum. If we fail, everyone else will too.’
‘So, shall we practise some spellcraft?’ Sylva said, stepping on to the sand and flaring a ball of wyrdlight. ‘Why don’t you try a fireball this time, Fletcher. I’ll throw up a shield over there and you can use it as target practice.’
Fletcher felt his cheeks flush red, embarrassed at his inability to produce even the most basic of shields. He could blast out a wave of fire, telekinesis or even lightning, which was effective, but wasted a lot of mana. To his chagrin, he still struggled to shape them into a beam or even a ball. Powering a glyph and the spell itself at the same time was too much to hold in his head at once. That being said, he was slowly improving, if not at the rate he had hoped for.
‘You guys go ahead, you’re far more advanced than me. I’ll just practise on the sidelines where I won’t get in the way . . .’
‘OK, if that’s what you want,’ Sylva said with disappointment. ‘Boys, why don’t you try and hit a moving target?’
She hurled a large ball of wyrdlight into the air, sending it zigzagging around the room in a random pattern. Othello laughed and etched the fire symbol, unleashing a tongue of flame that he shaped into a fireball and sent speeding after the blue light. Seraph was not far behind.
Fletcher sat dejectedly on the steps, etching the fire symbol over and over again in the air. He had shaved off some time with his etching, able to form a glyph quicker than any of the others. But that was where it ended. He trickled through some mana and watched as a fan of flame roiled out. With a colossal effort, he compacted it into a rough ball. He looked at it in surprise, then hurled it at the wyrdlight before his concentration broke.
It shot past the spinning blue sphere, grazing the edge and snuffing it out of existence.
‘Yeah!’ Fletcher yelled, punching the air.
Behind him, a slow clap echoed from the arena entrance.
‘Well done, Fletcher, you managed a spell,’ Isadora taunted. ‘Why, you actually performed one of the most basic of abilities required of a battlemage. Your parents must be so proud. Oh . . . wait.’
Fletcher turned, his elation immediately replaced with outrage. Isadora gave him a dainty wave, skipping down the arena steps. Fletcher was surprised to see the seven other first years, trailing behind her into the arena.
‘So as you can see, we were right.’ Tarquin pointed an accusatory finger at Sylva, Othello, Fletcher and Seraph. ‘They are training here, in secret!’
‘That’s why you’re never in the common room,’ Genevieve exclaimed, tossing her hair with surprise. ‘You always say you’re in the library.’
‘We are,’ Fletcher tried to placate her. ‘We just come here afterwards, to practise our swordplay with Sir Caulder. Remember, he offered private tuition to all of us in our first lesson.’
‘That didn’t look like sword practice to me,’ Atlas said, pointing at the empty space above the arena where Fletcher’s fireball had snuffed out Sylva’s wyrdlight. ‘Sir Caulder isn’t even here.’
‘Why didn’t you tell us?’ Rory stammered. ‘You never give me a straight answer when I ask what you’ve been up to.’
Fletcher had no answer for that. It had felt wrong to not include the others. But it would have been too hard to explain, too high a risk of Tarquin and Isadora finding out about what they were doing. Not that it had helped in the end.
‘Why would they hide it from you?’ Tarquin pondered aloud with a theatrical air. ‘Perhaps because . . . no, they wouldn’t. Would they?’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Genevieve, her bottom lip trembling.
‘Well, I’m sorry to say, but it looks as if the other commoners are training in secret to beat you,’ Tarquin theorised, shaking his head with mock disgust. ‘I mean, they haven’t a hope of beating us nobles, let’s be reasonable here. But, if they can embarrass you three in the arena, it might just snag them a commission.’
‘That’s a goddamn lie!’ Fletcher yelled, leaping to his feet and rounding on Tarquin. ‘And if you think we can’t beat you, you’re more arrogant than I thought.’
‘Why don’t we do it right now?’ Tarquin brought his face an inch from Fletcher’s. ‘We’re in the arena. Plenty of spectators. What do you say?’
Fletcher seethed, his hands itching with violent intent.
‘Plenty of witnesses, more like,’ Sylva interrupted, pulling Fletcher back from the brink. ‘So that everyone can say they saw Fletcher duel and he can get expelled. Don’t you care about your own career?’
‘Scipio would never expel me,’ Tarquin snapped at her, venom dripping from his words. ‘It’s an empty threat. My father is the King’s best friend; it would never get that far. As for a common bastard like Fletcher . . .’
But Fletcher was on to his game now. He wouldn’t give Tarquin the satisfaction.
‘You’ll get your duel, in good time. When I can beat you with everyone watching. We’ll see who’s the better summoner then.’
Tarquin smiled and leaned in, until Fletcher could feel the noble’s breath in his ear.
‘I look forward to it.’
Tarquin swept out of the room, followed by the rest of the nobility. For a moment Rory hesitated, his face filled with indecision. Atlas lay a hand on his shoulder.
‘They were caught in the act, Rory. We should have known not to trust the likes of them. A wannabe noble, a bastard, an elf and a half-man. You don’t need friends like them.’
Fletcher bristled at the jibe, then realised that by calling Seraph a ‘wannabe noble’, Atlas must have overheard Seraph and him talking in the common room.
‘You’ve been eavesdropping, Atlas,’ Fletcher said. ‘That was a private conversation.’
‘Oh yes, I’ve heard a lot of things these past few weeks. Who do you think told Tarquin and Isadora about your extracurricular activities?’
‘Sneak,’ Seraph spat, kicking the sand in anger. ‘What did he promise you?’
‘A commission in the Forsyth Furies, if I play my cards right. You two should do the same,’ he said, turning to Rory and Genevieve.
‘You would trust those two snakes?’ Fletcher cried. ‘They’re lying to you and they’ll do the same to Rory and Genevieve. Don’t do this, please!’
But it was too late, their minds were made up. One by one, they turned their backs on him and walked away. Until the four were alone once again.
47
Sweat dripped from Fletcher’s brow as he etched the shield symbol in the air in front of him. He fixed it in place, twirling his finger and
watching as it followed his every movement.
‘Good. Now the hard part,’ Sylva instructed, her voice echoing in the empty space of the arena. Seraph watched him from the sidelines, having finished his training for the day.
His mind felt like it would split in two as he tried to regulate a flow of mana both to and through the symbol at once. He was rewarded by a thin stream of white light that hung in the air before him.
‘That’s enough for now, Fletcher. Shape it.’
It was easy to pull the fluid into an opaque disk, countless hours of wyrdlight practice finally paying off. It was thinly spread and would shatter after a few sword blows, but it was enough for now.
Fletcher sucked the shield back through his finger and felt his body suffuse with mana once again. With the tournament just hours away, it would not do to waste any of his mana reserves.
‘Well done, Fletcher! You can do it on almost every try. You’ll be better than some of the second years by now,’ Sylva encouraged.
‘I don’t care about where I come in the tournament,’ Fletcher moaned. ‘I only care about beating Isadora and Tarquin. They can flash up a shield in a few seconds and theirs are twice as thick as mine. It’s the same with all the attack spells as well. Consistency, speed and power, that’s what Arcturus said matters. They beat me at all three.’
Sylva gave him a sympathetic smile and squeezed his shoulder.
‘If you come up against them, they will need to use more mana to beat you, which gives us a better chance. Seraph, Othello and I have caught up with them after all this training. We would never have been able to do that without your help, especially the sword practice. Even Malik says that you’re a good swordsman, and the Saladins are reputed to be the best fencers in the land!’
Fletcher gave her a weak smile and went to sit beside Seraph. It was almost midnight, but Othello had asked them to wait for him in the arena. He had disappeared just a few hours before, on mysterious business in Corcillum.
The past few months had been gruelling, filled with constant practice and study. Their demonology exam had come and gone, which all of them had passed with flying colours. Fletcher wasn’t sure what had hurt his wrist more, the incessant sword training or the endless hours of scribbling essays during their daylong exams.
He could have borne the past few months with relative ease, were it not for the coldness that he, Sylva, Seraph and Othello had received from their former friends. Despite their attempts to make peace with them, Rory, Genevieve and Atlas were still upset, eating separately at breakfast and avoiding them wherever possible.
‘Ah, they’re still here,’ Othello’s voice came from behind them. ‘We have company, everyone. Step lively now and welcome some old friends.’
Fletcher turned to see Othello, Athol and Atilla standing behind them. He leaped to his feet and was immediately wrapped in a bear hug, Athol’s strong arms picking him up as if he were no heavier than a child.
‘I thought Othello said he was going to pick up my order tomorrow!’ Fletcher laughed. Atilla smiled awkwardly from a few feet away and gave him a respectful nod.
‘True friends of the dwarves get personal delivery,’ Athol boomed, releasing him. ‘Atilla has been working day and night on your request. Now that his leg has healed, he thought he would come along as well.’
‘Aye, it was delicate work, but a joy to make,’ Atilla said, holding his handiwork up to the light.
Fletcher had first thought of it after his talk with Arcturus. The scrying stone he’d been given was only useful when Fletcher held it close to his eye. Arcturus’s eye patch had given him the idea of fixing it in place there, leaving his hands free.
‘I realised your idea for a monocle wouldn’t work as soon as I started, Fletcher. It would become dislodged if you ever had to fight whilst wearing it. But you said your idea came from a teacher’s eye patch. So I filed your crystal down until it was transparent, mounted it in silver and attached a strap to it instead. Try it for yourself.’
The leather strap of the eyeglass fitted snugly around Fletcher’s head, with the scrying stone sitting just in front of his left eye. He could see through it almost perfectly, although the left side of his vision now had a slight purple tinge.
‘It’s perfect! Thank you so much!’ Fletcher cried, marvelling at the clarity. If he were to scry, he would literally be able to see things from Ignatius’s point of view, at the same time being free to act as he chose.
‘Can I get one of those?’ Seraph asked with a hint of jealousy. ‘I would never have thought of that.’
‘Too late now,’ Atilla replied, pulling his beard at the compliment. ‘But if you have the coin and the crystal, I would be happy to start right away.’
‘Hmmm, I need my stone for tomorrow. But I may take you up on that soon.’ Seraph pulled out his own shard of crystal and looked at it with disappointment.
‘Very impressive,’ Sylva said, yawning as she walked up the stairs. ‘But the tournament is in the morning and I need a good night’s sleep. Are you coming, Seraph?’
‘Yeah, I need my beauty sleep if I’m going to win Isadora’s heart tomorrow,’ Seraph joked, giving Fletcher a parting wink as he followed her. ‘Goodnight all!’
After their footsteps had faded down the corridor, Athol cleared his throat and gave Othello an apprehensive look.
‘Right, there is one more item of business to discuss, Othello. Atilla has a new tattoo, to cover the scar on his leg. I know you hate doing this, but I’ve brought the tattooing kit in case you want the same. After the failed attack, the Pinkertons are more aggressive than ever.’
Othello groaned as Athol pulled out several thick needles and a pot of black ink from his pack.
‘No! Not this time. I have come to realise that taking the blame for Atilla has only served to make him live a life without consequences. If anything, his near-death experience probably taught him more life lessons in one night than he has had in his entire fifteen years of existence. Is that not so, Atilla?’ Othello observed, nodding pointedly at Fletcher.
‘I was wrong about humans,’ Atilla mumbled, looking at his feet. ‘But that does not change the many atrocities we have suffered at their hands. I have realised it is not their race that I hate, but the system that we live in.’
‘And if we are to change that system, we must do so from within.’ Othello gripped Atilla by the shoulder. ‘Will you enlist in Vocans next year? I cannot do this alone, brother.’
Atilla looked up, his eyes burning with determination.
‘I will.’
Othello laughed with joy and slapped Atilla on the back.
‘Excellent! Let me show you my room. Can your leg manage the stairs?’
The twins left arm in arm, Othello helping Atilla limp up past the steps and out of the arena. Their cheerful voices echoed down the corridor, leaving Fletcher alone with Athol.
‘How things change,’ Fletcher murmured.
‘Aye. It does my heart good to see them back as friends,’ Athol said, wiping a tear from his eye. ‘They were inseparable as youngsters, always getting into mischief.’
‘Atilla’s heart is in the right place,’ Fletcher said, thinking of his own hate for the Forsyths. ‘I do not know if I would be so forgiving.’
‘It is not in a dwarf’s nature to forgive,’ Athol sighed, sitting down and lifting one of the tattooing needles to the light. ‘We can be as stubborn as mules, myself included. Not Othello, though. I remember back when Othello volunteered to be tested by the Inquisition, and I told him that he was joining the enemy. Do you know what he replied?’
‘No, what did he say?’ Fletcher asked.
‘He said that a warrior’s greatest enemy can also be his greatest teacher. That young dwarf has wisdom beyond his years.’
Fletcher contemplated those words, once again fe
eling a deep admiration for Othello. Dame Fairhaven had said something similar: know thy enemy. But what could he learn from the Forsyths, or Didric? Perhaps if he had access to James Baker’s book, he could learn something from the orcs. Annoyingly, it was yet to return from the printers, who were having trouble carving wooden presses for the intricate diagrams that adorned each page. Though it mostly concerned the anatomy of demons that lived in the orc side of the ether, it was impossible to know what other useful observations Baker had inscribed in those pages.
‘You don’t want a tattoo, do you? I did Othello and Atilla’s, so I know what I’m doing,’ Athol half joked.
‘No, it’s not my style,’ Fletcher said, laughing. ‘No offence, but I think they look quite brutish. I’ve even seen an orc . . .’
He froze. In his mind’s eye, he saw the albino orc raising his hand, the pentacle flashing violet on his palm. Could it really be that simple?
‘You saw an orc with tattoos?’ Athol said slowly, confused by Fletcher’s abrupt silence.
‘It was a dream . . .’ Fletcher murmured, tracing his finger over the palm of his left hand.
Fletcher drew his khopesh and began to sketch the outline of a hand in the arena’s sand. His heart beat madly in his chest at the thought of what he was about to do.
‘I hope you’re as good as you say you are, Athol,’ Fletcher voiced. ‘I need this tattoo to be perfect.’
48
It was blazing hot in the arena, made more so by the dozens of torches that Sir Caulder had ensconced in the walls. The sand the noviciates stood on seemed to stir and shift in the flickering light.
‘Are there really only twenty-four of us? I thought there would be more,’ Seraph whispered in Fletcher’s ear.
‘No, that’s it. Twelve first years and twelve second years, with an equal number of commoners and nobles,’ Fletcher replied, in a terse voice.
He did not feel like talking. Each beat of his heart made his left hand throb with pain. It had not been a pleasant experience with Athol the night before, and he had not been able to test his theory yet. The dwarf had told him to let his hand heal as much as possible before he tried anything.
Summoner: Book 1: The Novice Page 28
