47
Sweat dripped from Fletcher’s brow as he etched the shield symbol in the air in front of him. He fixed it in place, twirling his finger and watching as it followed his every movement.
‘Good. Now the hard part,’ Sylva instructed, her voice echoing in the empty space of the arena. Seraph watched him from the sidelines, having finished his training for the day.
His mind felt like it would split in two as he tried to regulate a flow of mana both to and through the symbol at once. He was rewarded by a thin stream of white light that hung in the air before him.
‘That’s enough for now, Fletcher. Shape it.’
It was easy to pull the fluid into an opaque disk, countless hours of wyrdlight practice finally paying off. It was thinly spread and would shatter after a few sword blows, but it was enough for now.
Fletcher sucked the shield back through his finger and felt his body suffuse with mana once again. With the tournament just hours away, it would not do to waste any of his mana reserves.
‘Well done, Fletcher! You can do it on almost every try. You’ll be better than some of the second years by now,’ Sylva encouraged.
‘I don’t care about where I come in the tournament,’ Fletcher moaned. ‘I only care about beating Isadora and Tarquin. They can flash up a shield in a few seconds and theirs are twice as thick as mine. It’s the same with all the attack spells as well. Consistency, speed and power, that’s what Arcturus said matters. They beat me at all three.’
Sylva gave him a sympathetic smile and squeezed his shoulder.
‘If you come up against them, they will need to use more mana to beat you, which gives us a better chance. Seraph, Othello and I have caught up with them after all this training. We would never have been able to do that without your help, especially the sword practice. Even Malik says that you’re a good swordsman, and the Saladins are reputed to be the best fencers in the land!’
Fletcher gave her a weak smile and went to sit beside Seraph. It was almost midnight, but Othello had asked them to wait for him in the arena. He had disappeared just a few hours before, on mysterious business in Corcillum.
The past few months had been gruelling, filled with constant practice and study. Their demonology exam had come and gone, which all of them had passed with flying colours. Fletcher wasn’t sure what had hurt his wrist more, the incessant sword training or the endless hours of scribbling essays during their daylong exams.
He could have borne the past few months with relative ease, were it not for the coldness that he, Sylva, Seraph and Othello had received from their former friends. Despite their attempts to make peace with them, Rory, Genevieve and Atlas were still upset, eating separately at breakfast and avoiding them wherever possible.
‘Ah, they’re still here,’ Othello’s voice came from behind them. ‘We have company, everyone. Step lively now and welcome some old friends.’
Fletcher turned to see Othello, Athol and Atilla standing behind them. He leaped to his feet and was immediately wrapped in a bear hug, Athol’s strong arms picking him up as if he were no heavier than a child.
‘I thought Othello said he was going to pick up my order tomorrow!’ Fletcher laughed. Atilla smiled awkwardly from a few feet away and gave him a respectful nod.
‘True friends of the dwarves get personal delivery,’ Athol boomed, releasing him. ‘Atilla has been working day and night on your request. Now that his leg has healed, he thought he would come along as well.’
‘Aye, it was delicate work, but a joy to make,’ Atilla said, holding his handiwork up to the light.
Fletcher had first thought of it after his talk with Arcturus. The scrying stone he’d been given was only useful when Fletcher held it close to his eye. Arcturus’s eye patch had given him the idea of fixing it in place there, leaving his hands free.
‘I realised your idea for a monocle wouldn’t work as soon as I started, Fletcher. It would become dislodged if you ever had to fight whilst wearing it. But you said your idea came from a teacher’s eye patch. So I filed your crystal down until it was transparent, mounted it in silver and attached a strap to it instead. Try it for yourself.’
The leather strap of the eyeglass fitted snugly around Fletcher’s head, with the scrying stone sitting just in front of his left eye. He could see through it almost perfectly, although the left side of his vision now had a slight purple tinge.
‘It’s perfect! Thank you so much!’ Fletcher cried, marvelling at the clarity. If he were to scry, he would literally be able to see things from Ignatius’s point of view, at the same time being free to act as he chose.
‘Can I get one of those?’ Seraph asked with a hint of jealousy. ‘I would never have thought of that.’
‘Too late now,’ Atilla replied, pulling his beard at the compliment. ‘But if you have the coin and the crystal, I would be happy to start right away.’
‘Hmmm, I need my stone for tomorrow. But I may take you up on that soon.’ Seraph pulled out his own shard of crystal and looked at it with disappointment.
‘Very impressive,’ Sylva said, yawning as she walked up the stairs. ‘But the tournament is in the morning and I need a good night’s sleep. Are you coming, Seraph?’
‘Yeah, I need my beauty sleep if I’m going to win Isadora’s heart tomorrow,’ Seraph joked, giving Fletcher a parting wink as he followed her. ‘Goodnight all!’
After their footsteps had faded down the corridor, Athol cleared his throat and gave Othello an apprehensive look.
‘Right, there is one more item of business to discuss, Othello. Atilla has a new tattoo, to cover the scar on his leg. I know you hate doing this, but I’ve brought the tattooing kit in case you want the same. After the failed attack, the Pinkertons are more aggressive than ever.’
Othello groaned as Athol pulled out several thick needles and a pot of black ink from his pack.
‘No! Not this time. I have come to realise that taking the blame for Atilla has only served to make him live a life without consequences. If anything, his near-death experience probably taught him more life lessons in one night than he has had in his entire fifteen years of existence. Is that not so, Atilla?’ Othello observed, nodding pointedly at Fletcher.
‘I was wrong about humans,’ Atilla mumbled, looking at his feet. ‘But that does not change the many atrocities we have suffered at their hands. I have realised it is not their race that I hate, but the system that we live in.’
‘And if we are to change that system, we must do so from within.’ Othello gripped Atilla by the shoulder. ‘Will you enlist in Vocans next year? I cannot do this alone, brother.’
Atilla looked up, his eyes burning with determination.
‘I will.’
Othello laughed with joy and slapped Atilla on the back.
‘Excellent! Let me show you my room. Can your leg manage the stairs?’
The twins left arm in arm, Othello helping Atilla limp up past the steps and out of the arena. Their cheerful voices echoed down the corridor, leaving Fletcher alone with Athol.
‘How things change,’ Fletcher murmured.
‘Aye. It does my heart good to see them back as friends,’ Athol said, wiping a tear from his eye. ‘They were inseparable as youngsters, always getting into mischief.’
‘Atilla’s heart is in the right place,’ Fletcher said, thinking of his own hate for the Forsyths. ‘I do not know if I would be so forgiving.’
‘It is not in a dwarf’s nature to forgive,’ Athol sighed, sitting down and lifting one of the tattooing needles to the light. ‘We can be as stubborn as mules, myself included. Not Othello, though. I remember back when Othello volunteered to be tested by the Inquisition, and I told him that he was joining the enemy. Do you know what he replied?’
‘No, what did he say?’ Fletcher asked.
‘He said that a warrior’s greatest enemy can also be his greatest teacher. That young dwarf has wisdom beyond his years.’
Fletcher contemplated those words, once again feeling a deep admiration for Othello. Dame Fairhaven had said something similar: know thy enemy. But what could he learn from the Forsyths, or Didric? Perhaps if he had access to James Baker’s book, he could learn something from the orcs. Annoyingly, it was yet to return from the printers, who were having trouble carving wooden presses for the intricate diagrams that adorned each page. Though it mostly concerned the anatomy of demons that lived in the orc side of the ether, it was impossible to know what other useful observations Baker had inscribed in those pages.
‘You don’t want a tattoo, do you? I did Othello and Atilla’s, so I know what I’m doing,’ Athol half joked.
‘No, it’s not my style,’ Fletcher said, laughing. ‘No offence, but I think they look quite brutish. I’ve even seen an orc . . .’
He froze. In his mind’s eye, he saw the albino orc raising his hand, the pentacle flashing violet on his palm. Could it really be that simple?
‘You saw an orc with tattoos?’ Athol said slowly, confused by Fletcher’s abrupt silence.
‘It was a dream . . .’ Fletcher murmured, tracing his finger over the palm of his left hand.
Fletcher drew his khopesh and began to sketch the outline of a hand in the arena’s sand. His heart beat madly in his chest at the thought of what he was about to do.
‘I hope you’re as good as you say you are, Athol,’ Fletcher voiced. ‘I need this tattoo to be perfect.’