Summoner: Book 1: The Novice Read online

  He began to speak with more confidence now, and Fletcher could see he was a natural storyteller.

  ‘It was darker than a stack of black cats that night, barely a sliver of a moon to light our way. I can tell you, we made more noise than a rhino charging as we made our way through the thickets. It was a miracle we made it more than ten minutes without being noticed,’ he intoned, his eyes seeming to mist over as if he were there again.

  ‘Get on with it!’ yelled one of the boys from the back, but his comment was met with glares and shushing as the crowd listened eagerly.

  ‘Our battlemage led the way, his demon had good night vision which helped somewhat; but it was all we could do not to accidentally fire our muskets, let alone keep our footing. A suicide mission if I’ve ever seen one. A waste of good men, that’s for sure,’ the soldier continued, twirling the spearhead between his fingertips.

  ‘They sent a summoner with you? Now that is a waste. I thought we had only a few hundred of them?’ Jakov asked, his scepticism replaced with fascination.

  ‘The mission was important, even if it was misguided. I didn’t know him well, but he was a good enough fellow, although he was definitely not a very powerful summoner. He was fascinated by the orc shamans, always asking the soldiers what they knew about them and their demons. He was constantly scribbling and drawing in his book, investigating the remains of the orc villages we passed over, copying the runes they painted on the walls of their huts.’ The soldier must have noticed their faces begin to go blank as he went off topic, so he hurried on.

  ‘In any case, it was not long before we were lost, the few stars we had been using to navigate covered by rain clouds. Our fate was sealed when the drizzle began. Have you ever tried firing a musket with wet gunpowder? It was one disaster after another.’ He dropped the spearhead on the cloth and balled his fists together with emotion.

  ‘The chosen weapon of the orc is a javelin. When one hits you, it sends you flying like a cannon ball, pinning you to the ground if it doesn’t go clean through and into the man behind. They whistled through the trees and plucked us from the earth like the world had flipped sideways. We didn’t even see who was throwing them, but half the men were dead in the first volley, and I didn’t want to hang around for the second. The summoner made a break for it, and I followed him. If anyone could make it back in the midst of that god-awful mess, it was him. We ran in a panic, following the chirps of his demon.’

  ‘What kind of demon was it?’ asked Jakov, his hands clasped together in rapt attention.

  ‘I never got a good look at it in the dark. It looked like a flying beetle and it was ugly as sin, but I’m thankful to it; without it I would be a dead man. In the end, the summoner stumbled and fell, and I saw a javelin had winged his side. The bugger was bleeding like a stuck pig. There wasn’t much I could do for him, but the damned demon wouldn’t leave without him, so I picked him up and carried him away. The poor bastard must have died before we reached the trenches, but the demon led me back all the same. The little varmint wouldn’t leave his side when I brought the body back. They tried to do me for desertion, but I told them I was carrying the wounded and the rest of the troop got lost behind. They didn’t know what to do with me, with my squad dead an’ all and my age being what it is, so in the end, they chaffed me. My only consolation was the summoner’s pack, full of some of the goodies you see before you. But that wasn’t the real gem . . .’ He rummaged through the saddlebags by his feet and suddenly Fletcher realised what it had all been leading up to. Perhaps the soldier did this with every crowd, reeling them in with his story, then bringing out the most expensive piece.

  Yet what the soldier removed with a flourish was not the shrunken head or preserved demon he had been expecting. It was a book, bound in heavy brown leather, with thick vellum pages. It was the summoner’s book!

  5

  If the soldier had expected to impress his crowd, he was mistaken. Most looked on ambivalently and there were even a few groans. In a small hunting town such as Pelt, learning to read was far down the list of priorities. Many villagers would struggle to get through the first page, let alone the entirety of a thick book. Fletcher, on the other hand, had been put in charge of Berdon’s finances, which required him to be both numerate and literate. The many long hours he had spent sweating over his numbers and letters had cost him precious time to play with the other children, but he was proud of his education and was sure he was just as learned as Didric, if not more so.

  The soldier smiled as he brandished the book, holding it up in the grey winter light and flicking through the pages, giving Fletcher a tantalising glimpse of scrawled handwriting and intricate sketches.

  ‘What else you got?’ asked Jakov, the disappointment clear in his voice.

  ‘Plenty! But they don’t get much better than this, if you will allow me to explain. Let me show you, before we move on to the next item,’ the soldier implored.

  The crowd, though disinterested in the book, was not going to let free entertainment go to waste. There were nods of assent and urging from them, and the soldier broke into a snaggle-toothed grin. He hopped on to an empty crate from the next stall and beckoned the crowd closer, holding the tome above his head where everyone could see.

  ‘This battlemage was the lowest rank a summoner can assume, a second lieutenant to a regiment that hadn’t even finished their training. But he volunteered for that fateful mission, and when I looked through his book I understood why. The man was looking for a game changer, a way of summoning something new.’ He had their attention now, and he knew it. Fletcher gazed across the street, slack jawed, earning him a warning cough from Berdon. He straightened and busied himself with the stall, though it was already impeccably arranged.

  ‘The orc shamans summon all manner of demons, but they are mostly base, weak creatures, no match to what our own summoners can bring forth. Yet there are only a few species of demon our summoners are able to capture from the other world, with the occasional rare exception. So, although our summoners are more powerful than orc summoners many times over, that leaves us with only a few strings to our bow, so to speak. And what this battlemage was trying to do was to find a way, using orcish techniques, to summon the really powerful demons.’

  During his night in the barracks on the elven front, Fletcher had overheard reminisced accounts of horrifying demons that slunk in the night, slitting sleeping throats and slipping away. Beasts that came clawing out of the jungle like wildcats and fought until their bodies were ragged with musket balls. If these were the base and weak creatures that the soldier spoke of, then he would not like to meet the demon of a fully-fledged battlemage.

  ‘So we’re to believe that book holds a secret that will change the course of the war? Or contains instructions on how to summon our own demons? Perhaps it is worth its weight in gold,’ a familiar voice scoffed, dripping with sarcasm.

  It was Didric, back from the stables. He had been standing behind the next stall along, out of Fletcher’s view.

  ‘Your words, not mine, my good sir,’ the soldier said, tapping his nose with a knowing wink.

  ‘It would be more worthwhile to invest money in the pitiful weapons across the road than in your book!’ Didric smirked as Fletcher reddened at the jibe, then Didric strolled around the crate to the front of the crowd, carelessly kicking the rhino horn over as he did so.

  ‘Why would the summoner volunteer for such a mission, if he had already discovered this great secret? And why would you be selling it here, if the book was worth so much? As for it containing summoning instructions, we all know only those of noble blood and a few lucky others are blessed with the ability needed to summon.’ He sneered as the soldier gaped in surprise, but then the soldier rallied with surprising alacrity.

  ‘Well now, sire, he probably was eager to see an orc demon up close. I don’t know my letters, and so I don’t know its wort
h, and it would be confiscated from me if I tried to sell it to any battlemage, since it was stolen from one of their own.’ He spread his arms, his face a picture of innocence.

  ‘Of course,’ he went on, ‘I will likely hand it over when I get to the elven front. But if I can make a few shillings on the side, knowing that the book will reach a battlemage eventually regardless, well, who could begrudge me that, after carrying the man halfway across the jungle?’ He lowered his head in false modesty, peeking through his greasy locks. The crowd was uneasy, unsure which party to side with. Didric was certainly popular, especially when he was being free with Caspar’s money in the tavern. Yet the soldier was exciting, and Fletcher could see the crowd wanted this story to be true, even if they knew in their hearts that it was not.

  Even as the crowd jeered and Fletcher began to grin at the bully losing this battle of wits to a common soldier, Didric interjected.

  ‘Wait. Did you not say earlier that you knew the focus of his studies by looking through the book? Surely you would need to read to know about any of this? You are a liar and a fraud, and I have a good mind to send for the Pinkertons. They might even throw a desertion charge at you too.’ He laughed as the soldier spluttered.

  ‘You have him dead to rights now,’ Jakov said, his hand on the hilt of his sword.

  ‘There are pictures in the book . . .’ the soldier stammered, but was immediately shouted down by the crowd, who had begun to mock him. Didric raised his voice and held up a hand for silence.

  ‘I’ll tell you what. I like the look of the book. It is curiosity and the need for learning that drives me, not the desire for riches,’ he declared nobly, even as the gold trimming on his clothing glinted in the sunlight.

  ‘I will come by later to pick it up. Shall we call it . . . four shillings? I just so happened to sell a pair of fine antlers for the same price last night,’ he said, giving Fletcher a gloating look. He did not wait for an answer, but instead strode off in triumph, followed by Jakov and most of the soldier’s customers.

  The soldier looked after him in fury, but soon dejection took over. He sat down on the crate with an audible sigh, dropping the book on to the ground in defeat. Crestfallen at Didric’s victory, Fletcher watched as the wind sent the pages riffling.

  He did not know how, but Didric was going to pay that night. One way or another.

  6

  The day went by excruciatingly slowly. Berdon was having a busy day, but the acrid stench of burning hooves was beginning to become unbearable. Every few minutes a soft pile of horse manure tumbled to the ground behind him, adding to the existing odour. There had only been one sale that day: a small dagger sold to a merchant who had decided to cut his haggling short to get away from the smell, producing a small windfall of twelve silver shillings.

  The soldier across the road had not been as vocal as before, but he had still done very well for himself, selling most of the items that had been spread out on the cloth before him. There were only a few trinkets left, as well as the iron-tipped rhino horn and, of course, the book. Fletcher believed most of the soldier’s story, yet he suspected that the book did not contain any secrets of value. He did not understand why the man would lie; whatever it contained, the book would provide fascinating insight into the secretive life of the battlemages. That, in itself, was a valuable prize, one that even now Fletcher would be bartering over if he did not so desperately want that leather jacket.

  As he stared at the book, the soldier caught his eye and gave him a knowing smile. Seeing there were no likely customers in the vicinity, he sauntered across the road and fingered one of the better swords on Fletcher’s stall.

  ‘How much?’ he asked, lifting it from its seat and twirling it in a practised manner. It thrummed the air like a swooping dragonfly, the man’s dexterity and speed remarkable, given his greying hair and wrinkled face.

  ‘It’s thirty shillings, but the scabbard that comes with it is another seven,’ Fletcher replied, ignoring the glitter of the spinning blade and eyeing the soldier’s other hand. He knew every trick in the book, and the soldier’s behaviour reminded him of a classic. Misdirect the eye by making a show of an expensive piece, then slip a smaller item, like a dagger, into a deep pocket while the vendor was distracted. The soldier rapped his knuckles on the table to get Fletcher’s attention back to the item at hand.

  ‘I’ll take it. It has a nice balance and a good slicing edge. None of this fencing nonsense the officers keep mucking about with. You think stabbing an orc is gonna stop it before it tears your head off? You might as well stab a wolf with a toothpick. I learned quick: you chop at an orc’s legs and they’ll go down just like any man. Not that I’ll need a decent sword for the northern front, but old habits die hard.’

  He punctuated his last sentence with a downward stab into the earth, then pulled out his purse and began to count out the money. Fletcher retrieved the scabbard from behind the stall, a simple but sturdy piece made from an oak frame and wrapped in rawhide.

  ‘They don’t haggle where you’re from?’ asked Fletcher, after he’d taken the money.

  ‘Course they do. I just didn’t like the way that little bastard was talking about your stall. The enemy of my enemy is my friend, isn’t that how the saying goes? I wish the elves thought that way. With them, it’s more like the enemy of my enemy is vulnerable, let’s stab them in the back whilst they’re not looking,’ grumbled the soldier. Fletcher remained silent, wary of venturing into politics. There were many who were sympathetic to the elves and a loud discussion on the subject might turn some of the traders away from getting their horses shod.

  ‘I was enjoying your story before he came along. I hope I don’t offend in asking, but was any of it true?’ Fletcher looked the man in the eye, daring him to lie. The soldier observed him for a moment, then visibly relaxed and smiled.

  ‘I may have . . . embellished a little. I’ve read the book in parts, but my reading isn’t too good so I flipped through it. From what I can tell, he was studying the orcs, trying to learn from them. There’s orc symbols all over the place, and mostly half-translated ramblings about their clans and ancestors. There are also sketches of demons, damn fine ones too. He was a good artist, even if he wasn’t the greatest summoner.’

  The soldier shrugged and took a dagger from the stall, using it to pick at the dirt beneath his nails.

  ‘Shame though. Thought it would be nice to offload it here. I’ll have to sell it for cheap on the elven border. There’s some who are mad for battlemages in the ranks, but none of them have any coin. Maybe I’ll sell it to several of them, page by page.’ He seemed to like that idea and nodded to himself, as if his problem was solved.

  ‘What about Didric? His father is a powerful man, and the Pinkertons are staying at his house! If it’s your word against Didric’s, I’m not sure how the cards would fall,’ Fletcher warned him.

  ‘Pah! I’ve faced far worse than a brat born with a bronze spoon in his mouth. No, those two coppers have seen me try and sell that book before, and they never said a dicky. They like soldiers, do the Pinkertons, think we’re cut from the same cloth, even if all they do is beat up dwarves who look at them funny. Put a Pinkerton in front of an orc and they’ll do what those horses have been piling on the ground behind you for the past few hours,’ he said, wrinkling his nose.

  ‘Well, make sure I’m there when Didric comes back for the book. I’d love to see his face when you tell him he can bugger off.’ Fletcher rubbed his hands together with glee.

  ‘Of course.’ The soldier winked, then sheathed his sword and strolled back to the other side of the road, whistling a marching tune.

  This was going to be good.

  7

  The sun was beginning to set, and the soldier had become more and more good-humoured as he raked in a small fortune at his makeshift stand. Nothing remained, except for the book left optimisti
cally in the centre of the cloth at his feet. Throughout the day, the soldier had extolled the virtues of Fletcher’s goods whenever a customer inspected the stall. Thanks to his cajoling, Fletcher had sold two more daggers and one of their cheaper swords at a good price. The day’s sales had not been so bad after all and Fletcher couldn’t wait to get his hands on the leather jacket.

  ‘Maybe we can get a drink at the tavern after this and celebrate our good fortune,’ the soldier suggested, smiling as he walked across the street again.

  ‘The tavern sounds good, if you’d allow me to make a quick stop first. There is a purchase I have to make,’ Fletcher replied with a smile, holding a heavy purse up for the soldier to see and jingling it.

  ‘Is that for the book?’ the soldier asked half-jokingly, but with a hint of hope in his voice.

  ‘No, though in all honesty had I the coin to spare I would make you a fair offer for it. There is a jacket I have my heart set on, and I only have just enough. The stall is owned by my . . . master, Berdon, so the money we made today will go to him.’

  At the sound of his name, Berdon lifted his head from the hoof grasped between his huge hands and gave the soldier a respectful nod, before returning to his work.

  ‘My name’s Fletcher. What’s yours?’ Fletcher extended his hand.

  ‘My family name is Rotherham, but my friends call me Rotter,’ he said, grasping Fletcher’s hand with a leathery palm. The grip felt firm and honest to Fletcher. Berdon had always told him that you could tell a lot about a man from his handshake.

  ‘You may go now, Fletcher. You’ve done well today,’ Berdon called. ‘I’ll put away the stall myself.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ asked Fletcher, eager to be away from the horses and hear the soldier’s war stories in the warm tavern.