50
This time, Fletcher was left in a larger cell. It was just as dark and miserable, but he was pleased to find Othello and Sylva in the barred cells on either side. Ignatius chirruped with joy when he set sight on them.
‘You made it!’ Sylva cried, jumping up and grinning at him.
‘Rory almost beat me to it. It was as if that challenge was designed for Mites.’ Fletcher stared at the ground. He still felt guilty, and his mind lingered on Rory and Malachi. The image of the bloodstained sand flashed in his mind, and he felt a wave of nausea rush through him.
‘It was designed for Mites. Don’t you see what Rook did?’ Othello growled, clutching the bars between them. ‘He wanted to knock out all the powerful commoners early, by making it easier for the weak ones to beat us. If his plan had worked, the nobles would be fighting Rory, Genevieve and some of the second-year commoners with Mites in the next round. He didn’t separate the commoners and nobles in the first round to be fair. He did it to make it unfair on us!’
‘Well, it’s a good thing he underestimated us,’ Sylva replied, a look of grim determination on her face. ‘I hope Seraph makes it. I saw that he was up against Atlas and a second year, when they walked past my cell.’
‘More like let’s hope Tarquin and Isadora don’t make it. With Rook deciding who they fight against, somehow I doubt it,’ Othello muttered darkly.
‘So what’s next?’ Fletcher asked, watching Ignatius lick the wound in his side and wondering whether he should attempt the healing spell. ‘He said something about a sword fight. Athol did me the favour of sharpening my blade last night. But what are we going to do, slice at each other until one gives up?’
‘No; I asked Scipio about that last week,’ Othello explained. ‘The barrier spell protects the skin from being cut. It’s like a very flexible shield that sheathes around your body. It will still hurt like hell, but it blunts the cut, as if a bar of metal is hitting you. Once Rook judges that you have struck a killing or maiming blow, you win.’
‘Rook again. Well, at least he can’t be too unfair with everyone watching,’ Fletcher grumbled, scratching Ignatius under the chin.
‘Hang on, I’ve never heard of this spell. Why haven’t we learned how to use it? I know orcs tend to use blunt weapons anyway, but surely it’s a game changer!’ Sylva exclaimed.
‘Because you need at least four powerful summoners to provide a strong enough barrier,’ Othello explained. ‘Some of the nobility will have to merge their mana and provide a constant stream to you throughout the battle. Other than in a tournament, the spell is almost never used. Except for when the King is on the battlefield, of course.’
‘I see. Well, let’s hope it works; I don’t fancy getting my head cut off tonight,’ Fletcher said, beckoning Ignatius to jump on to his lap.
‘Here, let me heal Ignatius,’ Sylva murmured, noticing Fletcher’s mood.
‘Don’t. You need all your mana to beat the Forsyths in rounds three and four. He’ll be all right,’ Fletcher said, wishing he could perform one himself. Unfortunately, the healing spell glyph was usually very unstable, and Fletcher was a long way from mastering it.
‘Let me have a look at it.’ Fletcher lifted Ignatius closer to his face.
The scratch was shallow, far shallower than Fletcher had expected. In fact, the scratch seemed to be shrinking before his very eyes. He sat and watched with growing amazement as the cut gradually began to seal itself.
‘Bloody hell,’ Fletcher murmured. ‘You are full of surprises.’
Ignatius purred as Fletcher traced the fresh skin with his finger.
‘Someone’s coming,’ Othello said, shrinking back into his cell.
Sir Caulder came into view, leading a happy looking Seraph behind him.
‘I still don’t understand why they keep you in these cells like goddamned criminals,’ Sir Caulder grumbled, unlocking the cell opposite Fletcher for Seraph. ‘The least I can do is give you all some company.’
‘Do you know who’s fighting next?’ Fletcher asked.
‘Aye. It looks like none of the second years have made it to the next round. The pairs are Seraph and Tarquin, Sylva and Isadora, Othello and Rufus, Fletcher and Malik. You’re going to be hard pressed to win, all of ye. Especially you, Fletcher; you’re the first to fight, and Malik was trained by his father. I’ll come and get you in a bit, they’re just organising volunteers for Malik’s barrier spell.’
He limped off, still grumbling, the clack of his peg leg echoing down the corridor.
‘I’ll tell you what, if we hate these cells, imagine how those prissy nobles feel,’ Seraph said cheerfully.
‘I take it you won then?’ Fletcher asked.
‘Of course. Sliver took out Barbarous with a few poison spikes from his back. Atlas was not happy! The second year’s Mite just hid under a rock until it was all over. Whoever was in that last battle really did a number on that pillar! Half the thing was blown off by the time I got to it, not to mention the state of Rory’s Mite! Scared the hell out of that second year!’
‘Is Rory OK?’ Fletcher asked, feeling another pang of guilt.
‘He looked pretty miserable. Malachi was still being treated last I saw him. The losers get to sit with the rest of the spectators, so you’ll see for yourself in a bit. We’ll have a bit of an audience for the next round, that’s for sure,’ Seraph said, still grinning.
‘You need to beat Isadora and Tarquin. That’s what we’re here for. That’s why I almost killed Malachi. Get your game face on,’ Fletcher snapped, rounding on Seraph.
‘I’m sorry,’ Seraph said. ‘I didn’t mean . . .’
The echo of Sir Caulder’s footsteps returned, sending them all into nervous silence.
‘Come on, Fletcher. You’re first up,’ Sir Caulder said in a gruff voice.
He unlocked the cell and, with one last look at the others, Fletcher followed.
‘Remember what I told you, Fletcher. This isn’t a race, this isn’t emotional. Your career is war, and this is just business. Malik knows you are impatient, that your emotions can get the better of you. Good, let him think that’s how you’re going to behave. Use it.’
With those parting words, Sir Caulder pushed him into the arena.
‘Ah, Fletcher. Can I say, we were all very impressed with your performance in that last battle; it surprised us all!’ Scipio placed his hand on Fletcher’s back and propelled him on to the rock-strewn arena. ‘Unusually fast etching, I didn’t see your finger move at all. As for your Salamander, what a show! I’m sure a first-lieutenancy is on the cards, if one of the generals sees the same potential I do!’
Fletcher barely heard his words, instead staring at Rory’s tear-streaked face as he held Malachi to his chest. The demon was flapping his wings weakly, but he appeared to be alive. Relief flooded through Fletcher like a drug.
‘Rory, is he OK?’ Fletcher yelled from across the arena.
‘No thanks to you,’ Rory yelled back. The pain in his voice was obvious, but there was no real anger there, only the remnants of fear.
‘I’m sorry, Rory,’ Fletcher implored, but Rory turned away, fussing over his injured demon.
Despite this, Fletcher felt a lot better. Malachi was going to be fine, and that was what mattered. Rory would come around.
It was only when he saw Malik, scimitar in hand, that he came crashing back down to reality.
‘I need volunteers, to produce the barrier spell for Cadet Wulf!’ Scipio declared to the crowd.
‘My pleasure,’ Zacharias Forsyth shouted. ‘And I believe that the Favershams are also eager to help. Inquisitor Rook, would you join us?’
Fletcher blanched as the Favershams and Zacharias walked down to the edge of the arena. The couple did not bother hiding the hatred in their eyes. Was Scipio really going to allow them to be responsible for his life?
Scipio harrumphed and looked at them suspiciously.
‘While I do respect your willingness to overlook the . . . complexities you have with Fletcher, Lord and Lady Faversham, I must insist that Rook remain focused on judging the tournament. No, I shall take that responsibility.’
‘But my lord,’ Zacharias stuttered. ‘You are . . . retired, are you not?’
‘The King was kind enough to send me a summoning scroll last night.’ Scipio flared a wyrdlight into existence before snuffing it out with his fist. ‘He feels that I will be needed on the orc front soon, and that I have been grieving for far too long. I am inclined to agree with him. I must put the death of my first demon, so many years ago now, behind me and move on. My new Felid kit is still growing, but I am sure with a powerful summoner such as yourself, we will do just fine. Now, pay us no mind, Fletcher. You will feel a slight tingling on your skin, but that is all. We shall take care of everything else.’
The four battlemages joined hands and Scipio began to sketch a complex glyph in the air.
‘Go on, Fletcher,’ Scipio said. ‘Malik is waiting.’