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.
‘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 traditional 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!’