20
With breakfast over, the others decided to go back to their rooms for more sleep, but Fletcher was loath to sit in the cold. The conversation over breakfast made him realise how little he knew about Vocans. He was going to find Jeffrey. If Seraph knew so much about Vocans from the servants, he was going to tap that source of information for all it was worth. He was in luck; Jeffrey was still polishing the atrium floor.
‘Care to show me around? There’s not much point in cleaning that floor now, it’s just going to get dirty when the second years come down for breakfast,’ Fletcher said to the tired looking servant.
‘I’m only polishing it so that Mr Mayweather doesn’t yell at me. If I can say I was showing a noviciate round then I’m off the hook! Let’s just take it easy on the stairs this time,’ Jeffrey said, grinning. ‘What would you like to see?’
‘Everything!’ Fletcher said. ‘I’ve got all day.’
‘Then so have I.’ Jeffrey beamed. ‘Let’s go to the summoning room first.’
The room was on the same floor within the east wing. The large steel doors were difficult to open, the screech of rusted hinges echoing around the atrium. Jeffrey took a torch from a sconce outside and led him in, lighting their way with the flickering orange flame. The floor was sticky underfoot, which upon closer examination turned out to be made of heavy strips of leather. There was a large pentacle painted in the middle of the room, the epicentre of a spiral of gradually smaller stars. Each was surrounded by the same strange symbols that Fletcher had seen on the summoner’s book. Perhaps these were the keys that James Baker had written about?
‘Why leather?’ Fletcher asked.
‘The pentacles and symbols need to be drawn on or with something organic, otherwise they don’t work. We used to have wood but it kept burning and needed to be replaced. The Provost decided that leathers were a better idea. It’s worked so far; they smoke and smoulder a bit and it smells something awful, but it’s better than risking a fire every time someone’s demon enters the ether.’
‘I had no idea!’ Fletcher said, examining a row of leather aprons that hung on hooks beside the door.
‘I don’t know much else about this room. You’re better off asking a second year, but I wouldn’t bother. The competition for ranks is fierce, and they don’t like to help first years in case you steal what would have been their promotion. I hate that way of thinking, but the Provost says that it’s brutally competitive on the front lines, so why shouldn’t novices get a taste of that here?’
Jeffrey lingered by the door, refusing to venture any deeper into the room.
‘Let’s go. This place gives me the creeps,’ he muttered.
He led Fletcher out and they trudged up to the second floor of the east wing.
‘This is the library.’ Jeffrey pushed open the first door. ‘Forgive me if I don’t go in. The dust; it’s terrible for my asthma.’
The room seemed as deep and long as the atrium was tall. Row upon row of bookshelves ranged along the walls, full of tomes even thicker than the book that lay at the bottom of Fletcher’s satchel upstairs. Long tables sat between each bookshelf, with unlit candles spaced at intervals along them.
‘There are thousands of essays and theories written here by the summoners of old. Diaries mostly, dating back over the last thousand years or so. This place doesn’t get used much, there is so much work to do already, without the extra reading. But some do come here for tips and tricks, usually the commoners who don’t have the coin to spend in Corcillum on the weekends,’ Jeffrey said leaning against the doorway. ‘They need to catch up anyway; the nobles always know more than they do, growing up with it and all.’
‘Fascinating,’ Fletcher said, eyeing the piles of books. ‘I’m surprised that this room is used so rarely. There must be a treasure trove of knowledge here.’
Jeffrey shrugged and closed the door.
‘I wouldn’t know, but I think the teaching in the school has become far more practical, out of necessity. There is just no time for research and experimentation any more; all they care about is getting you to the front lines as quickly as possible.’
As they walked out, Fletcher saw a string of boys and girls walking through the hall.
‘Those are the second years,’ Jeffrey said, nodding at them. ‘They’ve had a hell of a time this year, the competition for ranks is fiercer than ever. Now that convicts are likely to be drafted into the army, dwarves too, they’re going to need officers. And if the second years don’t perform well, that is who they will be leading into battle . . . or rotting away with on the elven front.’ Fletcher wasn’t sure what would be so bad about leading dwarves into battle, but he wasn’t going to get into a debate with Jeffrey, not when he still had so much to learn.
He stared at the second years as they descended the dark stairs, without their demons. Tiny spheres of light floated around their heads like fireflies, emitting an ethereal blue glow.
‘What are those lights? And where are their demons?’ Fletcher exclaimed, as he and Jeffrey followed them down the steps. The second years ignored him, rubbing their eyes and murmuring amongst themselves.
‘Demons aren’t allowed out other than in your quarters or during lessons, you’ll be told about that once you first years have settled in. Although where the demons go when they aren’t with their summoners I haven’t a clue. As for the lights, they’re called wyrdlights. It’s one of the first skills noviciates learn, I think. In a few days you guys will be zipping those things all over the place.’
‘I can’t wait,’ Fletcher said, eyeing the little blue lights as they floated aimlessly around the atrium. ‘No wonder there’s only one candle in our rooms.’
Jeffrey dragged him away from the atrium and down some stairs beside the entrance to the summoning room.
‘The castle is huge, but the rooms are mostly used as accommodation for the nobles, teachers and servants. The rest are either empty or used as storage, except for a few lecture halls,’ Jeffrey said as their footsteps echoed down the dark steps.
When they reached the bottom of the stairs, the first thing Fletcher noticed was a chain of manacles that were embedded in the wall of a long, dank corridor that stretched into the darkness. As they walked down it, Fletcher could see dozens of cramped, windowless prison cells, barely a few feet wide.
‘What is this place?’ Fletcher asked, horrified. The conditions for people kept imprisoned there would have been appalling.
‘This part of the castle was built in the first year of the war eight years ago, for deserters. We didn’t know what to expect, so whenever troops were sent to the front lines, we made sure they would bed down here for the night beforehand. That way, they would know what awaited them if they ran away in cowardice. We only ever had a few dozen prisoners in the first two years, or so I’m told. Nowadays, deserters are just flogged when they are caught and then sent back to the front lines.’ Jeffrey ran his hand along the bars as he spoke. Fletcher shuddered and followed him down the long corridor.
He was surprised when the claustrophobic tunnel opened out into an enormous room. It was shaped like the inside of a coliseum, with concentric rings of stairs that also served as seats, encircling a sand-covered enclosure. Fletcher estimated it could easily fit an audience of five hundred.
‘What the hell is this doing here?’ Fletcher asked. Surely there could be no explanation for a gladiatorial arena such as this in the basement of the academy.
‘What do you think, boy?’ came a rasping voice from behind him. ‘Executions, that’s what it was for. To give the soldiers and novices heart whenever we captured an orc, so they could see that they die just like any other creature.’
Fletcher and Jeffrey spun to see a near toothless man with greying hair, leaning on a staff. He was missing his right foot and hand, which had been replaced by a thick peg and wickedly sharp hook. Stranger still, he wore the chain mail armour of the unmodernised army, resplendent in dark green and silver from one of the old noble houses.
‘Of course it was never used. Who ever heard of an orc being captured alive!’ He cackled to himself and held out his left hand, which Fletcher shook.
‘We captured a few gremlins, but watching them cower and piss their loincloths wasn’t very gratifying. They probably have more of a quarrel with the orcs than we do, what with them being enslaved and all,’ the man said, limping down to the arena with a lopsided gait.
‘Well come on, let’s see what you can do with that khopesh. Long time since I’ve seen one of them.’ The man brandished his staff and pointed it at Fletcher’s sword. ‘I may have lost my good hand in the war, but I can still teach you a thing or two with my left. Hell, I must be able to; that’s my job, isn’t it!’
‘Who the hell is that?’ Fletcher whispered, wondering what kind of madman would choose to spend his free time down in the dungeons. Jeffrey leaned in and whispered back.
‘That’s Sir Caulder. He’s the weapons master!’
Sir Caulder scraped a line in the sand with his staff and beckoned Fletcher closer.
‘Come on. I may be a cripple, but I’ve got things to do.’
Fletcher jumped into the arena and advanced towards him, cautioning Ignatius to stay beside Jeffrey with a thought. Sir Caulder winked at him and raised his hook in mock salute. ‘I know officer material when I see it, but can you fight like one?’
‘I don’t want to hurt you, sir. This sword is sharp,’ Fletcher warned him, unbuckling it and holding it out for him to see. It was the first time he had really held his weapon in his hand. The sword was far heavier than he had expected.
‘Aye, I may be old, but with age comes experience. This staff here is twice as dangerous a weapon in my one hand than that khopesh is in both of yours.’
Fletcher doubted it. The man was as skinny as a rake and about as tall too. He gave a half-hearted swipe at him, aiming so that he wouldn’t hit anything. The man made no move to defend himself, allowing the sword to graze harmlessly in front of his chest.
‘All right, boy, enough playing,’ Sir Caulder snapped.
The staff came thrumming through the air at Fletcher’s head and dealt him a stinging blow. Fletcher cried out and slapped his hand over his ear, feeling the blood as it ran in a hot trickle down his neck.
‘Come on, that sword wouldn’t even pierce this chain mail,’ the old man said with glee, prancing in front of Fletcher like a billy goat.
‘I wasn’t ready for that,’ Fletcher snarled, then stabbed at Sir Caulder’s stomach, two-handed. The staff came down like a hammer, knocking his sword so hard that it stabbed into the sand. Fletcher was rewarded with another swat to his cheek, leaving a wide welt.
‘That’s not going to look pretty in the morning,’ Sir Caulder cackled, jabbing at Fletcher’s stomach and causing him to stumble back.
‘You see, Jeffrey, they carry around their swords as if they’re just for show. Let me tell you, when an orc charges at you from the bushes, don’t think a musket ball is going to stop it. It’ll be using your rib as a toothpick before it even realises it’s been shot,’ Sir Caulder ranted, punctuating each word with a prod of his staff.
Fletcher’s patience had run out. He swung his khopesh in a wide arc, catching the staff in the curve and pushing it to the side. Then he charged in under Sir Caulder’s guard, shoulder barging the man to the ground, landing on top of him.
Before a shout of triumph could leave his lips, Sir Caulder’s knees scissored around his neck, choking off the words. His peg leg knocked against the back of Fletcher’s head. Fletcher dropped his sword and tried to pry open Sir Caulder’s thighs, but they were like twin bars of steel. The man tightened his hold, until Fletcher’s vision bruised. Then the world faded to black.