Summoner: Book 2: The Inquisition, Page 2

  ‘Love what you’ve done with the place,’ Fletcher said drily.

  ‘Yes, the old stomping ground. It was time for an upgrade, what with my new station in life. What do you think of our new quarters?’

  Didric pointed upwards. The village of Pelt was built at the base of the Beartooth Mountains’ largest peak. It shadowed the village at sunset, towering over them like a vast monolith. Fletcher followed Didric’s finger and saw that the tip of the peak no longer existed. Instead, a castle had been built in its place, all crenellations, towers and arrow slits. Cannons lined the walls, the black holes of their barrels menacing the village, as if they might open fire at any moment. It was more a fortress than a home.

  ‘The safest place in Hominum, stocked with enough supplies to endure a siege of ten years. The elves could betray us, the orcs could invade Hominum – the prisoners could even take over the village, and it wouldn’t matter. The greatest army in the world couldn’t breach those walls, even if they could climb the sheer cliffs on either side.’

  ‘You sound paranoid, Didric,’ Fletcher replied, though Didric’s words had taken him off guard. ‘Like you have something to hide.’

  ‘Only our immense wealth, Fletcher. My father doesn’t trust the banks. He should know, he used to be a banker.’

  ‘A crooked moneylender does not a banker make,’ Fletcher replied. The boy stiffened but prodded him on, ignoring the jibe.

  As they walked down the deserted streets, Fletcher saw poverty everywhere.

  Many of the houses and shops were empty shells, while others had been converted into jails. Rough, dirty faces were pressed against the bars, silently watching Didric’s strutting figure with hatred in their eyes. The entire place stank of misery and desperation; it was a far throw from the industrious little village Fletcher had grown up in.

  Didric’s father, Caspar Cavell, had become the richest man in the village by lending to the needy and the desperate, tricking them into signing ironclad contracts that would end up costing them far more than they borrowed. It looked as if the Cavells had called in all that was owed, taking their debtors’ savings and kicking most of the citizens of Pelt out of their homes in order to build the prison.

  Disgusted, Fletcher slowed and flexed his fingers, fighting the temptation to punch Didric’s face in.

  ‘Move,’ Didric snarled, slapping Fletcher across the back of the head with his free hand.

  Fletcher burned with anger, but his hands were still numb. The paralysis was dulling his reactions. Even if he were at his best, he doubted his chances at wrestling away the gun pressed into the small of his back. He would have to wait.

  They reached the front gates which led out of the village, and Fletcher’s stomach lurched. Berdon’s hut was gone! But that was not the only thing unusual about the scene. The area around the front gates had been flattened, with racks of pikes, bayonets and swords replacing the houses. Stranger still, there seemed to be a queue of men lining up by the gates in front of a long, low table piled with red uniforms.

  No. Not men.

  ‘Dwarves!’ Fletcher breathed.

  Hundreds of them, even more than he had seen at the dwarven war council. They wore traditional dwarven garb – heavy leathers with canvas shirts. They seemed rougher than the dwarves Fletcher had encountered before, their braids loose and uneven, the clothing stained with mud, grime and sweat. Their faces were dark and brooding, and they talked among themselves with low, angry voices.

  ‘They’ve just marched over Beartooth to collect their new gear,’ Didric said, smiling, ‘after two years of keeping the northern front safe from the elves. It’s taken a long time for the elven war to end, though I wish it was longer. The peace talks were delayed when the elven clan leaders saw the state of that she-elf after the Tournament at Vocans. She was your friend, wasn’t she?’

  Images of the broken and bruised figure of Sylva came unbidden to Fletcher’s mind, but he held his tongue. He knew that he couldn’t trust anything Didric told him about her.

  ‘My lord!’ a guard shouted, bringing Fletcher back to reality. ‘This reprobate tried to murder you. It isn’t safe. Let us escort him for you.’

  ‘Did I ask for your opinion, bootlicker?’ Didric spat, brandishing the pistol. ‘Do not presume to speak to me unless spoken to first. Get back to work.’

  ‘As you wish, my lord,’ the man said, bowing low. Didric shoved him away with his boot, sending the man sprawling in the mud.

  Fletcher was disgusted by the way his nemesis held himself, as if he were above them all. He turned on Didric as the final vestiges of paralysis left him.

  ‘You have the guards calling you lord?’ Fletcher said, layering his voice with contempt. ‘I bet they laugh at you behind your back. You’re nothing more than a jumped-up gaoler, you pompous arse.’

  For a moment Didric stared at him, his face slowly turning red. Fletcher suspected nobody had spoken to him like that for a long time. Then, to his surprise, Didric burst out laughing. The hoarse cackle echoed across the courtyard, turning heads as Didric heaved with mirth.

  ‘Do you know why they call me lord, Fletchy?’ Didric gasped, wiping a tear from his eye. ‘It’s because I am a lord. Lord Cavell.’

  3

  Fletcher stared at Didric in horror. Suddenly, small details he had overlooked came into focus. The heavy signet ring on Didric’s little finger. The uniforms of the guards, so specifically coloured and heavily armoured; they were Didric’s private army – a privilege the king afforded only to the nobility.

  There was even a coat of arms sewn on to the chest of Didric’s jacket, depicting the bars of a jail, with two crossed swords behind them, emblazoned in the same yellow and black that his soldiers wore. A fitting emblem.

  Didric cocked his head, obviously taking pleasure in Fletcher’s dismay. Fletcher, in turn, tried to remain expressionless, though it was almost impossible. He was overcome with disgust.

  ‘While you have been rotting away in a prison cell, I have been at Vocans, in my very own luxurious suite. No commoners’ quarters for me,’ Didric boasted, his lopsided smile widening. ‘Lord Forsyth was kind enough to give me Rubens, a demon that had been in his family for generations. Of course, it is not my only demon, but it got me started. In fact, you might be interested to know that the Tournament is in just a few days’ time. I really should be training, but I couldn’t miss this – not for all the world.’

  ‘Let’s just get it over with,’ Fletcher snarled, looking around for the courthouse. ‘You talk too much.’

  ‘Oh very well. I’m surprised you’re in such a hurry to get back to your prison cell. If I were you, I would savour the next few hours of fresh air and natural sunlight, Fletcher. It will be your last.’ Didric pointed the way, before pressing the pistol into Fletcher’s back.

  The courthouse had been converted from the old village hall, a large oval-shaped building complete with a steeple and large oak doors. Its walls were freshly painted in white and the sigil of the Judges was emblazoned over the door – a black gavel and block that loomed ominously as Didric led him through the wide open doors.

  The inside of the room reminded Fletcher of a church, with low benches on either side, filled with people. At the end of the centre aisle, two guards stood waiting with chains and manacles. Behind them, a grim-faced judge, resplendent in black robes and a powdered white wig, stared out from a high table.

  ‘It was genius to convert this place into a courthouse,’ Didric whispered out of the corner of his mouth. ‘Now we can take the accused straight from sentencing to prison. Of course, it’s never usually this full. You’ve drawn quite a crowd!’

  Fletcher tried to ignore the staring faces on either side, crushed with self-consciousness in the solemn silence of the room. He realised that the clothes that clung to his body were barely more than stinking rags, for there was little he could do to wash with the limited water they gave him in prison. His hair hung in greasy locks around his face and his adolescent beard
and moustache grew in sparse, scruffy patches. He imagined if he looked in the mirror, he would hardly recognise himself.

  Didric led him down the aisle as if he were part of some macabre wedding party, proudly displaying his captive. Fletcher darted quick looks to his left and right, hoping to see Berdon, but if he was there, Fletcher could not find him. Finally, they reached the pulpit.

  ‘Chain him,’ the judge ordered in a high, reedy voice. Fletcher allowed the guards to shackle him to the floor, like a bear being baited in a pit. Soon, they would unleash the hounds.

  He stood in silence, waiting for what was next. He had no cards to play here, no way out. His best bet would be to try to escape after the sentencing. It might be difficult if Didric took him back to his cell personally. Even so, Fletcher knew one thing. He would rather die fighting than be left to rot in that cell.

  ‘Bring out the defence.’ The judge motioned at the doors to his left. A guard knocked twice, then opened the doors with a ceremonial flourish. A tall, battle-scarred man in blue officer’s uniform stepped through.

  ‘Arcturus!’ Fletcher cried, all sense of decorum forgotten. Arcturus gave him a grim smile and a tiny shake of the head, as if to tell him to be quiet.

  ‘Silence,’ the judge ordered, pointing a long, bony finger at Fletcher. ‘One more outburst from you and we shall have you gagged.’

  ‘My apologies, your honour,’ Fletcher said, as Arcturus came to stand beside him. ‘I did not mean to disrespect your courtroom.’

  ‘Hmm, very good,’ the judge replied, lifting his glasses and peering at him down a long, aquiline nose. He looked surprised at Fletcher’s civility. Perhaps he was used to far less courteous treatment from those on trial.

  ‘Be that as it may, I will have order in my courtroom. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yes, your honour,’ Arcturus said, cutting Fletcher off before he could say anything else. His message was clear. Fletcher was not to speak again.

  ‘Who will act as the prosecution?’ the judge asked, shuffling some papers on his desk.

  ‘I will, your honour,’ Didric announced, turning to face the crowd.

  ‘Ahem. That is very … unorthodox,’ the judge said, as Didric strutted to a table and chair on the left side of the room. ‘But not outside the realm of the law. I should remind you that you will be unable to testify for the prosecution, should you choose to represent yourself. Is that understood?’

  ‘It’s an open and shut case, your honour. The sworn testimony from the two witnesses will be more than enough to convict this villain, whether I take the stand or not,’ Didric replied, smiling confidently at the watching assembly.

  ‘Very well,’ the judge said, shaking his head with disapproval. ‘Will the prosecution and the defence be seated. Guards, bring out the first witness!’

  Arcturus and Didric sat down on their respective sides of the courtroom, leaving Fletcher chained to the floor in front of the judge. The guard waited until everyone was settled, then opened the side door with an officious bow. For a moment Fletcher did not recognise the young woman who stepped through the door. But then she glanced at him with a sneer, and he saw who it was.

  Calista had changed since he had last seen her, advancing on him in the crypt. Her hair, once a raggedly shorn mop, had grown out and glossed into an elegant wave of black. She had chosen a baby-blue dress, edged with lace and frills, giving her an almost doll-like appearance. Her face remained hard and pinched, as it had always been, but she – or a stylist – had gone to great lengths to powder and paint it, softening her features and smoothing her skin.

  Even the way she walked had changed, her usual bow-legged gait seemingly gone as she took her seat at the podium beside the judge. Now that she was in full view of the crowd, she bit her lip and edged away from Fletcher, as if she was afraid of him.

  Fletcher knew that he was in trouble. They had turned the tomboyish guardswoman into a wide-eyed innocent. How could he convince the judge that it was in fact Calista, along with Didric and Jakov, who had attempted his murder? The spectators were already muttering to themselves and looking at Fletcher with accusation in their eyes.

  ‘I will remind you all that the final decision rests with me, as do all matters of criminal law. There will be no jury or trial by peers – that is reserved for military courts. As such, I will have no discussions, no side-taking in the crowd. Should you wish to do so, I suggest you leave my courtroom.’ The judge gave them all a stern look, before turning to the podium next to him.

  ‘Now, my dear, are you ready to begin?’

  Calista nodded, twisting her hands in her lap. Didric rose and went to stand beside her, leaning nonchalantly against the podium.

  ‘I’ll keep this simple, so as not to have Calista up here any longer than she has to be. Just focus on me, Calista, and ignore everyone else. There’s nothing to be afraid of. Just tell the nice judge what happened on the night I was attacked and it will all be over soon.’

  Calista lowered her head demurely, hiding her face from the courtroom with a curtain of black hair. It was a masterful performance, one that would have almost convinced Fletcher himself, had she not flashed a sadistic smile at him from behind her tresses.

  ‘Didric, Jakov and I were standing watch at the village gates, that night,’ Calista said, with just a hint of a tremble in her voice. ‘We saw Fletcher leaving his hut, carrying a heavy book. There was a soldier selling one just like it in the market a day earlier, and we assumed he had stolen it and was going to hide the evidence. So, we followed him in the dark, to the graveyard, of all places. When we confronted him, he claimed to have bought the book—’

  Didric interrupted her with a raised hand.

  ‘Please take note that the investigation found a significant amount of money sitting in the defendant’s room on the night of the incident, unspent. It is unlikely that he ever purchased the book. We can add theft to his list of crimes.’

  ‘One … count … of theft …’ The judge scribbled at his desk with a swan-feather quill. ‘Quite the deviant we have here.’

  ‘Indeed, your honour. We confiscated the money, naturally,’ Didric said, winking at Fletcher. ‘My apologies for interrupting you, Calista. Please continue.’

  ‘Thank you, Lord Cavell,’ Calista said, a theatrical quiver in her voice. ‘Foolishly, we chose to believe Fletcher’s story. He then told us that he was going to use the book to attempt to summon a demon and asked if we would stay and watch. We thought it would be funny, so we did …’

  She was trembling now, darting quick, fearful glances at Fletcher. He had to admit, she was a good actress.

  ‘I don’t know how, but he did it. There was so much noise and light, it was like the world was about to end! That was when it happened.’

  A single tear trickled down her cheek. The judge handed her a handkerchief from the high table and murmured, ‘Go on. Tell us what he did.’

  Calista gulped and set her jaw, wiping the tear from her face. She pointed at Fletcher, her finger quivering with emotion.

  ‘He turned on us, tried to kill us!’ she cried, leaping to her feet. ‘He hated us, blamed us for every misfortune he had ever suffered. It was as if he had gone mad! I remember how he laughed as he herded us into the chapel, our swords useless against his demon’s flames. And when I started crying, he focused on me, telling me I would be the first to die.’

  She stepped down from the podium and stalked towards Fletcher, keeping her finger pointed like a pistol.

  ‘Ladies first, isn’t that what you said?’ she hissed. ‘You monster!’

  Calista turned and buried her face in Didric’s chest. He patted her shoulder while she heaved with fitful sobs, each one more dramatic than the last. Fletcher rolled his eyes in disgust, earning himself a glare from the judge. Calista let Didric go and made a final, impassioned speech.

  ‘It was only when Didric – brave Didric – stepped in front of me, that Fletcher left me alone. Didric tried to reason with him, but it was useless. A
ll of a sudden the demon attacked Didric’s face with fire. Even as his hair was ablaze, Didric managed to fight it off, scaring Fletcher down the passageway beneath the chapel. It was then that Didric fell unconscious and cracked his skull. We carried him back to his father’s house. The rest you know.’

  The judge steepled his fingers, giving Calista a contemplative look. Despite her sobbing, her face was dry as a bone and her cheeks were puffed with excitement, flushing red. For a moment, Fletcher thought the judge sensed her deception, but then the old man smiled at her kindly and thanked her for her testimony. She gave Didric a deep curtsy, before departing the room without a backwards glance.

  ‘Bring out the next witness!’ the judge ordered.

  4

  Jakov had grown in the two years that Fletcher had been away, the last vestiges of puberty gone, to leave a Herculean giant. His arms were made up of thick slabs of muscle that shifted like the haunches of a horse, and he walked with the top-heavy shamble of a jungle gorilla. The guard now wore Didric’s black and yellow uniform, and the horizontal stripes accentuated his broad and powerful chest.

  ‘Please be seated, Sergeant Jakov,’ Didric said, pulling his chair out for him. ‘My first question is, can you confirm that Calista’s story is entirely truthful and accurate?’

  ‘I can, milord. Hearing her was like reliving that night all over again.’

  ‘Good. I know you are a busy man, so we don’t need you to tell it again in your own words. Please explain what happened after Fletcher’s murder attempt.’

  ‘Right you are, sir,’ Jakov said, tugging his forelock. He took a deep breath and began to speak.

  ‘After we delivered Didric to his father, I went to wake the rest of the guards. We found the door to Fletcher’s home barred. Once we had broken it down, we encountered resistance from Fletcher’s adoptive father, Berdon. He damn near killed us – he’s almost as big as me you know – but I managed to disarm him. Some of the boys got a little … overexcited at that point. Let’s just say Berdon didn’t do much blacksmithing for a while after that night. Bones take a while to heal.’