16
Fletcher did not learn much more from Arcturus that night. The man was as good as his word, buying Fletcher a steak and kidney pie and listening to his story – leaving out Didric’s part, of course. No sooner had Fletcher finished speaking than Arcturus excused himself and disappeared to his chambers. Fletcher didn’t mind; he bathed in a steaming hot bath with a full belly and slept between silk sheets. Even the imp had feasted on a fresh, minced steak, devouring it in seconds before nosing his bowl for more. If Arcturus could afford such finery, surely the life of a summoner could not be all bad.
In the morning he was woken by an impatient man, who claimed that he had been instructed to take Fletcher to the academy. When Fletcher emerged into the street, the man bade him hurry up and sit beside him in the front of the wagon, or he would be late for his morning delivery of fruit and vegetables.
The journey took over two hours but the driver evaded Fletcher’s attempts at small talk, his face pinched with worry at the traffic on the road. Instead, Fletcher passed the time by allowing the imp to ride proudly on his shoulder, grinning at the curious glances from people as they trotted by. After Arcturus had allowed Sacharissa out in the open so brazenly, Fletcher did not see why he couldn’t do the same.
He tried to picture Vocans, but he knew so little about it that his mind ranged from imagining a sumptuous palace to a comfortless training ground for fresh recruits. Either way, his excitement mounted with every turn of the cart’s wheels.
Finally, they arrived at the frontier with the southern jungle, the boom of cannon echoing in the distance. Whereas before the dirt road they were travelling on was surrounded by green fields, this land was thick with weeds and pitted with heavy gouges in the earth, evidence of the war that had since passed this land by.
‘There’s the castle,’ the driver said, breaking his silence. He pointed at the murky shadow of what looked like a mountain ahead of them, obscured by a thick fog that hung in the air. The wagon had joined a queue of others, though these were delivering heavy barrels of gunpowder and crates full of lead shot.
‘Is that where the King lives?’ Fletcher asked.
‘No, boy. That’s Vocans Academy. The King lives with his father in a fancy palace in the centre of Corcillum,’ the driver replied, giving him a curious look. But Fletcher wasn’t listening. Instead he gazed open mouthed, as the fog was dissipated by a heavy gust of wind.
The castle was as large as one of Beartooth’s peaks. The main building itself was a giant cube, made up of blocks of marbled granite, with terraces and balconies layered into the sides, like decorations on a wedding cake. There were four round turrets on each corner, each one with a flat, crenulated top, stretching hundreds of feet into the sky above the main structure. A deep moat of black, murky water surrounded the castle, twenty feet wide with a steep bank on each side. The drawbridge was down, but all the wagons passed it by, moving towards the cannon fire that still boomed in the distance.
As they moved closer to the academy, Fletcher could see that the walls were thickly latticed with creeping ivy and tinged with lichen and moss; it must have been built centuries ago. The boards of the drawbridge emitted a dangerous creak as the driver clucked his skittish horses over the top of it, but they made it to the other side in one piece.
The courtyard was shadowed by the four walls around it, with only a small square of sky illuminating it, from several storeys up. It was dominated by a semicircle of steps that led up to a heavy set of wooden double doors; the entrance to the castle.
As soon as the horses’ hooves clopped on the cobbles, a fat man in an apron, with a puffy, red face, emerged from the shadows. He was flanked by two nervous looking kitchen boys who sprang to work unloading the wagon.
‘Late, as usual. I shall have a word with the quartermaster about getting a new supplier if this happens again. We’ve only half an hour to prepare and serve breakfast now,’ the fat man said, plucking at his apron strings with his pudgy fingers.
‘It’s not my fault, Mr Mayweather, sir. An officer forced me to bring this noviciate up, which took me half an hour out of my way. Here, boy, tell him,’ the driver spluttered, prodding Fletcher in the small of his back. Fletcher nodded dumbly, the reality of where he was beginning to hit home.
‘All right then. We’ll let this one slide, but you’re on my list,’ Mayweather said with an appraising glance at Fletcher and an even longer look at his demon. Fletcher dismounted as the last of the fruit and vegetables were removed from the back of the wagon and stood, unsure of what he was supposed to do. The driver left without a second glance, eager to be away and on to his next pick up.
‘Do you know where you’re going, lad?’ Mayweather asked gruffly, but not unkindly. ‘You’re not a noble-born, that’s obvious. The commoners have already been here a week and I know all the second years by now. You must be new. Did you turn down the offer to come here, then change your mind?’
‘Arcturus sent me . . .’ Fletcher said, unsure how to answer.
‘Ahh, I see. You must be a special case then. We’ve already got two more of those upstairs,’ Mayweather said, his voice low and mysterious. ‘Though they’re a little stranger than you, I’ll grant you.
‘We don’t get many noviciates brought in personally by a battlemage,’ he continued, stepping closer to peer at Fletcher’s imp. ‘It’s usually the Inquisitors who find the gifted and bring them in. Battlemages rarely enlist any adepts themselves, because it means they have to give away one of their demons to them. They need every demon they can get their hands on at the front lines. Seems strange for Arcturus to give you a rare demon like this one, though. I’ve never seen the like!’
‘Is there someone I need to present myself to?’ Fletcher asked, eager to get away before Mayweather pried further. The more people who knew how Fletcher had become a summoner, the more likely that his whereabouts would get back to Pelt.
‘You’re lucky. The first day starts tomorrow, so you haven’t missed much,’ Mayweather said. ‘The noble-born candidates will arrive tonight; they tend to spend the week before in Corcillum, it’s more comfortable for them there. As for the teachers, they’ll be arriving from the front lines tomorrow morning, so you’re best off speaking to the Provost. He’s the only battlemage that doesn’t spend half the year on the front lines. Go straight ahead through the front doors and one of the supporting staff will let you know where to find him. Now if you’ll forgive me, I have breakfast to prepare.’ Mayweather spun on his heel and waddled away.
Despite the demon nestled around his throat, Fletcher did not feel like he belonged here. The ancient stone spoke of opulence and history. It was not for the likes of him.
Fletcher mounted the wide stairs and pushed through the double doors. Best to find the Provost before breakfast was served; then he could introduce himself to the other students over the morning meal. He was not going to be a loner again.
He stepped into a huge atrium with twin spiral staircases to his left and right, stopping on each floor. Fletcher counted five levels in total, each one bordered by a metal railing. The ceiling was supported by heavy oak beams; massive struts that held the stone above in place. A dome of glass in the ceiling allowed a pillar of light into the centre of the hall, supplemented by crackling torches set in the walls. At the very end of the hallway was another set of wooden doors, but it was the archway above them that drew Fletcher’s eye. The stone was carved with hundreds of demons, each one more breathtaking than the last. The attention to detail was extraordinary, and the eyes of each demon were made up of coloured jewels that sparkled in the light.
It was a huge space, almost wasteful in its design. The marble floors were being polished by a young servant, who gave Fletcher a weary look as he walked his dirty boots over the wet surface.
‘Could you point me in the direction of the Provost?’ Fletcher requested, trying not to look behind him at the footprints he had left.
‘You’ll get lost if I don’t show you,’ the servant said with a sigh. ‘Come on. I’ve got a lot of work to do before the nobles arrive, so don’t dawdle.’
‘Thank you. My name is Fletcher. And yours?’ Fletcher asked, holding out his hand. The servant stared at him with surprise, then shook it with a happy smile.
‘I can honestly say I’ve never been asked that by a student,’ the servant said. ‘Jeffrey is the name, thank you for asking. If you’re quick I’ll show you up to your quarters afterwards, and sort out any laundry for you that you might need doing. Begging your pardon, but from the smell of your garments it seems you need it.’ Fletcher reddened but thanked him all the same. Although he had washed himself the night before, he had forgotten that his clothes still smelled like sheep.
Jeffrey led him up to the first floor on the east side and down a corridor opposite the stairway. The walls were lined with suits of armour and racks of pikes and swords, left over from the last war. Every few steps they would walk past a painting depicting an ancient battle, which Fletcher would have to tear his eyes away from as Jeffrey pulled him onwards.
They passed by a set of large glass cabinets, stacked with jars of pale green liquid. Each one contained a small demon, suspended eternally within.
Finally, Jeffrey slowed down. The servant pointed to a huge mace hung up on the wall. It was studded with sharp stones, each the size and shape of an arrowhead.
‘That’s the war club that belonged to the orc chieftain of the Amanye tribe, taken as a trophy in the Battle of Watford Bridge. It was actually the Provost who struck him down,’ Jeffrey said with pride. ‘A great man, our Provost. Strict as a judge, though. You be careful of him; look him in the eye and don’t backchat. He hates both the spineless and the insolent in equal measures.’
With those words Jeffrey stopped at a heavy wooden door and banged on it with his fist.
‘Come in!’ shouted a booming voice from inside.