‘Eyes front!’ Sir Caulder barked from behind them, making the students jump. ‘Show your respect for Hominum’s Generals.’
Fletcher stood a little straighter as the corridor into the arena darkened. First came the generals, resplendent in smart uniforms of blue velvet, edged with gold thread that ran from their sleeves up to their epaulettes. Their chests were adorned with a plethora of medals and tassels and they clutched their bicorn hats tightly to their sides as they walked stiff-legged down the steps. These were hard men, with faces that spoke of weary experience. They did not speak, but instead raked their eyes over the cadets as if they were horses at auction.
‘If they’re impressed, they commission us directly after the tournament to fight in the King’s army,’ Seraph murmured out of the corner of his mouth. ‘The pay’s not as good, but they promote faster than the noble battalions do, because of the higher attrition rate. Filling dead men’s shoes and all that.’
‘Silence in the ranks!’ Sir Caulder snapped, limping to the front and daring them to break silence. ‘Stand to attention. If I see you move an inch I’ll make you wish you hadn’t!’
But Fletcher was not listening. A man had ducked into the arena and was staring at him. The family resemblance was unmistakeable. Zacharias Forsyth.
Zacharias was not as Fletcher had imagined. He had pictured a man with cold, serpentine features. Instead, Zacharias was tall and brawny, with half his ear missing and a confident grin. He flicked his eyes away from Fletcher and on to his children, who were standing side by side.
‘Come now, Sir Caulder, let the cadets relax. There will be plenty of time for all that ceremony later,’ Zacharias said in a deep, cheerful voice. He stepped on to the sand and embraced his two children, mussing up Tarquin’s hair and giving Isadora a kiss on the cheek.
For some reason, it confused Fletcher to see this. It seemed strange to think that anyone could adore Tarquin and Isadora, even if he was their father.
‘And who’s this strapping young lad?’ Zacharias boomed, stepping in front of Fletcher and looking him up and down, noting his shaggy black hair and the khopesh at Fletcher’s side.
‘It’s the bastard, Father; the one with the Salamander,’ Tarquin drawled, looking at Fletcher with disdain.
‘Indeed?’ Zacharias said, staring deeply into Fletcher’s eyes. The smile remained fixed on Zacharias’s face, but Fletcher saw something stir behind the man’s eyes. Something dark and ugly that made him want to shudder.
‘It will be interesting to see what your demon can do. Why, I bet it could burn a man’s shoulder to the bone, if it were so inclined.’ The smiling mask remained, but Fletcher would not let himself be intimidated by the brute of a man.
‘It can, and it has,’ Fletcher replied, setting his jaw. ‘Perhaps I could give you a demonstration some time.’
Zacharias’s smile wavered, then he laid a hand on Fletcher’s shoulder and pointed at the arena steps, which were filling with more nobles, all in varying uniforms and colours, representative of their personal battalions. Others had joined Zacharias on the sand, hugging their children and talking loudly, much to Sir Caulder’s annoyance.
‘It will be nice for you to have your family here to support you. Why don’t you wave hello to your father?’
Fletcher froze. Was Berdon here? It couldn’t be! But no, Zacharias was pointing to a grey-haired man and woman, who were staring at Fletcher with a look of pure hatred.
‘I took the liberty of informing the Favershams about your claims,’ Zacharias said, his eyes filled with malice. ‘Even the King has taken a special interest in your case. After all, you have accused Lord Faversham of being unfaithful to the King’s cousin once again, so many years after all the troubles with Arcturus and the other bastards.’
‘I claimed no such thing!’ Fletcher fumed. ‘I would never—’
‘I invited them to join me and see you for themselves, I hope you don’t mind. Arcturus has been sent away so he doesn’t run into his father and stepmother, part of the terms of his agreement with the old King. That leaves Rook in charge of the tournament. An old family friend, don’t you know. I’m sure he will take great pains to make sure everything is as fair as possible.’
Zacharias winked at Fletcher, then left the pit to take a seat with the other nobles, but not before flashing a shark-like grin at Sylva and Othello. Fletcher shook with rage, balling his hands into fists despite the pain that throbbed through his left hand.
‘Don’t let him faze you, Fletcher,’ Seraph whispered. ‘We’re going to wipe the floor with the Forsyths.’
‘Sit down, sit down, everyone!’ Scipio bellowed, ducking out of the corridor and walking down the steps of the arena, followed by a smirking Rook. He nodded and waved to generals and nobles alike. As the spectators took their seats, a hush fell on the arena.
‘So: another year, another fresh crop of cadets, ready to test their mettle in the arena,’ Scipio said, throwing his arms wide and beaming at the students. ‘This year is a rather unusual affair. Traditionally, there would only be a dozen or so candidates, with duels by knockout to determine a winner. But this year, we have extended the opportunity to both first and second years, leaving us with twenty-four candidates to sort through. I will leave you in the capable hands of Inquisitor Rook to explain the new rules of the tournament for you all.’
Scipio stepped away and took a seat at the very front of the arena steps, his job done.
‘Thank you, Provost. I would like to take this opportunity to thank you all for coming; I know your time is precious. Every minute away from the front lines is a minute your soldiers are without your fine leadership. To speed things up, I have decided that there shall be a three-way battle in the first round, where only one candidate will proceed to the next. It will not be a traditional duel; but more shall be revealed later.’
There were murmurs of curiosity from the watching crowd, but there was no disagreement. Rook allowed the noise to die down, then continued.
‘The following round will be the traditional knockout between two cadets, but with no spellcraft or demons allowed. Historically, the combatants in the tournament rarely come to blows, preferring to hurl spells at each other or let their demons do the fighting for them. It seems a shame to waste the years of sword training your children have had, even before coming to the academy. The second round will showcase this important skill.’
This time, there were nods of agreement from the nobles in the stands, but the generals seemed less happy with the arrangement, pursing their lips and shaking their heads at each other.
‘I must object. This gives an unfair advantage to the noble children, who will have all had private tuition in swordplay,’ one of the generals said, addressing Scipio directly. ‘We would prefer a fair assessment of the cadets’ abilities.’
‘Perhaps you would prefer us to handicap the nobles, simply because they are better prepared?’ Rook replied with a hint of sarcasm. ‘Have they not also had some training in spellcraft before arriving at Vocans too? Maybe we should limit the tests to the demonology exam?’
Scipio stood and turned to the general who had spoken.
‘I’m afraid I must agree with Inquisitor Rook. I too took issue with this change at first, but I soon remembered one thing. War is unfair – the weak fail and the strong survive. If the tournament is unbalanced, does it not provide a more accurate representation of true battle?’
‘I have also put a measure in place that will allow an equal number of nobles and commoners to make it to the second round,’ Rook announced. ‘Commoners and nobles will not compete with each other in the three-way battle, as the groups will not be mixed. Does that satisfy you?’
‘It does, Inquisitor. Thank you.’ The general took his seat once again, although his brow remained furrowed.
‘Good. Rounds three and four shall be tradit
ional duels, so I assume there will be no disagreement there. Now, the arena must be prepared for the first round,’ Rook said, rubbing his hands together. ‘Sir Caulder! Take the cadets to their cells!’
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!’
Summoner: Book 1: The Novice Page 29
