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The blow came thrumming through the air, slipping past Fletcher’s guard and slamming into his collarbone with a painful crunch.
‘Again!’ Sir Caulder growled, kicking out at Fletcher’s shin with his peg leg before swinging another blow at his head. This time, Fletcher caught the blow with his wooden sword, heaving it aside and kneeing Sir Caulder in the stomach.
The old man collapsed, wheezing on the sand of the arena.
‘Fletcher!’ Sylva shouted from the sidelines. ‘Be careful.’
Sir Caulder held up his hand and slowly got to his feet.
‘It’s all right, Sylva,’ he wheezed, rubbing his stomach. ‘A warrior should never hesitate at an opening. Heaven knows the enemy won’t.’
‘Didn’t you hit Sir Caulder in the face just ten minutes ago?’ Fletcher teased.
‘That was different . . .’ Sylva replied with a rueful smile.
A yell came from behind them. Fletcher turned to see Othello on top of Seraph, their weapons forgotten on the ground.
‘No no no; you need to learn finesse!’ Sir Caulder groaned at them. ‘You can’t just lay into each other until one of you has had enough.’
The two boys got to their feet, grinning sheepishly. A yellow bruise was blossoming on Seraph’s face and Othello’s lip was swollen like a ripe plum.
‘If you went to the trouble of having Uhtred carve us wooden weapons for practice, you should probably use them,’ Fletcher laughed, eyeing the discarded wooden battle-axe and broadsword.
‘We just got a bit overexcited,’ Othello admitted, picking up his axe and brushing the sand off.
He swung it with practised ease, spinning it in the air before slamming it into the sand beside him.
‘Well, you’ve improved a lot since we started training, I’ll give you that,’ Sir Caulder conceded. ‘But Sylva and Fletcher have already advanced to an exceptional level of swordsmanship. I expect you two might be a match for some of the nobles by now, but it will take a lot more work to surpass them. Good is not good enough.’
Sir Caulder glared at the pair for a while longer, then stomped off towards the arena exit.
‘Sparring lessons are done for today. You can practise your spellcraft down here if you like, I won’t stop you.’
The clack of his peg leg against stone faded until he had left the arena.
‘Well, that’s the most praise I’ve heard out of him,’ Seraph observed, picking his broadsword up from the ground. ‘Still, plenty of time to improve; we have a couple of months yet. I’m more worried about next week’s demonology exam. With all this training, I fall asleep as soon as I open my books!’
‘We’ll be fine,’ Othello insisted. ‘I’m yet to see a noble set foot in the library and even Rory, Genevieve and Atlas spend most of their time in Corcillum. If we fail, everyone else will too.’
‘So, shall we practise some spellcraft?’ Sylva said, stepping on to the sand and flaring a ball of wyrdlight. ‘Why don’t you try a fireball this time, Fletcher. I’ll throw up a shield over there and you can use it as target practice.’
Fletcher felt his cheeks flush red, embarrassed at his inability to produce even the most basic of shields. He could blast out a wave of fire, telekinesis or even lightning, which was effective, but wasted a lot of mana. To his chagrin, he still struggled to shape them into a beam or even a ball. Powering a glyph and the spell itself at the same time was too much to hold in his head at once. That being said, he was slowly improving, if not at the rate he had hoped for.
‘You guys go ahead, you’re far more advanced than me. I’ll just practise on the sidelines where I won’t get in the way . . .’
‘OK, if that’s what you want,’ Sylva said with disappointment. ‘Boys, why don’t you try and hit a moving target?’
She hurled a large ball of wyrdlight into the air, sending it zigzagging around the room in a random pattern. Othello laughed and etched the fire symbol, unleashing a tongue of flame that he shaped into a fireball and sent speeding after the blue light. Seraph was not far behind.
Fletcher sat dejectedly on the steps, etching the fire symbol over and over again in the air. He had shaved off some time with his etching, able to form a glyph quicker than any of the others. But that was where it ended. He trickled through some mana and watched as a fan of flame roiled out. With a colossal effort, he compacted it into a rough ball. He looked at it in surprise, then hurled it at the wyrdlight before his concentration broke.
It shot past the spinning blue sphere, grazing the edge and snuffing it out of existence.
‘Yeah!’ Fletcher yelled, punching the air.
Behind him, a slow clap echoed from the arena entrance.
‘Well done, Fletcher, you managed a spell,’ Isadora taunted. ‘Why, you actually performed one of the most basic of abilities required of a battlemage. Your parents must be so proud. Oh . . . wait.’
Fletcher turned, his elation immediately replaced with outrage. Isadora gave him a dainty wave, skipping down the arena steps. Fletcher was surprised to see the seven other first years, trailing behind her into the arena.
‘So as you can see, we were right.’ Tarquin pointed an accusatory finger at Sylva, Othello, Fletcher and Seraph. ‘They are training here, in secret!’
‘That’s why you’re never in the common room,’ Genevieve exclaimed, tossing her hair with surprise. ‘You always say you’re in the library.’
‘We are,’ Fletcher tried to placate her. ‘We just come here afterwards, to practise our swordplay with Sir Caulder. Remember, he offered private tuition to all of us in our first lesson.’
‘That didn’t look like sword practice to me,’ Atlas said, pointing at the empty space above the arena where Fletcher’s fireball had snuffed out Sylva’s wyrdlight. ‘Sir Caulder isn’t even here.’
‘Why didn’t you tell us?’ Rory stammered. ‘You never give me a straight answer when I ask what you’ve been up to.’
Fletcher had no answer for that. It had felt wrong to not include the others. But it would have been too hard to explain, too high a risk of Tarquin and Isadora finding out about what they were doing. Not that it had helped in the end.
‘Why would they hide it from you?’ Tarquin pondered aloud with a theatrical air. ‘Perhaps because . . . no, they wouldn’t. Would they?’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Genevieve, her bottom lip trembling.
‘Well, I’m sorry to say, but it looks as if the other commoners are training in secret to beat you,’ Tarquin theorised, shaking his head with mock disgust. ‘I mean, they haven’t a hope of beating us nobles, let’s be reasonable here. But, if they can embarrass you three in the arena, it might just snag them a commission.’
‘That’s a goddamn lie!’ Fletcher yelled, leaping to his feet and rounding on Tarquin. ‘And if you think we can’t beat you, you’re more arrogant than I thought.’
‘Why don’t we do it right now?’ Tarquin brought his face an inch from Fletcher’s. ‘We’re in the arena. Plenty of spectators. What do you say?’
Fletcher seethed, his hands itching with violent intent.
‘Plenty of witnesses, more like,’ Sylva interrupted, pulling Fletcher back from the brink. ‘So that everyone can say they saw Fletcher duel and he can get expelled. Don’t you care about your own career?’
‘Scipio would never expel me,’ Tarquin snapped at her, venom dripping from his words. ‘It’s an empty threat. My father is the King’s best friend; it would never get that far. As for a common bastard like Fletcher . . .’
But Fletcher was on to his game now. He wouldn’t give Tarquin the satisfaction.
‘You’ll get your duel, in good time. When I can beat you with everyone watching. We’ll see who’s the better summoner then.’
Tarquin smiled and leaned in, until Fletcher could feel the noble’s breath in his ear.
‘I look forward to it.’
Tarquin swept out of the room, followed by the rest of the nobility. For a moment Rory hesitated, his face filled with indecision. Atlas lay a hand on his shoulder.
‘They were caught in the act, Rory. We should have known not to trust the likes of them. A wannabe noble, a bastard, an elf and a half-man. You don’t need friends like them.’
Fletcher bristled at the jibe, then realised that by calling Seraph a ‘wannabe noble’, Atlas must have overheard Seraph and him talking in the common room.
‘You’ve been eavesdropping, Atlas,’ Fletcher said. ‘That was a private conversation.’
‘Oh yes, I’ve heard a lot of things these past few weeks. Who do you think told Tarquin and Isadora about your extracurricular activities?’
‘Sneak,’ Seraph spat, kicking the sand in anger. ‘What did he promise you?’
‘A commission in the Forsyth Furies, if I play my cards right. You two should do the same,’ he said, turning to Rory and Genevieve.
‘You would trust those two snakes?’ Fletcher cried. ‘They’re lying to you and they’ll do the same to Rory and Genevieve. Don’t do this, please!’
But it was too late, their minds were made up. One by one, they turned their backs on him and walked away. Until the four were alone once again.