‘Those are the second years,’ Jeffrey said, nodding at them. ‘They’ve had a hell of a time this year, the competition for ranks is fiercer than ever. Now that convicts are likely to be drafted into the army, dwarves too, they’re going to need officers. And if the second years don’t perform well, that is who they will be leading into battle . . . or rotting away with on the elven front.’ Fletcher wasn’t sure what would be so bad about leading dwarves into battle, but he wasn’t going to get into a debate with Jeffrey, not when he still had so much to learn.
He stared at the second years as they descended the dark stairs, without their demons. Tiny spheres of light floated around their heads like fireflies, emitting an ethereal blue glow.
‘What are those lights? And where are their demons?’ Fletcher exclaimed, as he and Jeffrey followed them down the steps. The second years ignored him, rubbing their eyes and murmuring amongst themselves.
‘Demons aren’t allowed out other than in your quarters or during lessons, you’ll be told about that once you first years have settled in. Although where the demons go when they aren’t with their summoners I haven’t a clue. As for the lights, they’re called wyrdlights. It’s one of the first skills noviciates learn, I think. In a few days you guys will be zipping those things all over the place.’
‘I can’t wait,’ Fletcher said, eyeing the little blue lights as they floated aimlessly around the atrium. ‘No wonder there’s only one candle in our rooms.’
Jeffrey dragged him away from the atrium and down some stairs beside the entrance to the summoning room.
‘The castle is huge, but the rooms are mostly used as accommodation for the nobles, teachers and servants. The rest are either empty or used as storage, except for a few lecture halls,’ Jeffrey said as their footsteps echoed down the dark steps.
When they reached the bottom of the stairs, the first thing Fletcher noticed was a chain of manacles that were embedded in the wall of a long, dank corridor that stretched into the darkness. As they walked down it, Fletcher could see dozens of cramped, windowless prison cells, barely a few feet wide.
‘What is this place?’ Fletcher asked, horrified. The conditions for people kept imprisoned there would have been appalling.
‘This part of the castle was built in the first year of the war eight years ago, for deserters. We didn’t know what to expect, so whenever troops were sent to the front lines, we made sure they would bed down here for the night beforehand. That way, they would know what awaited them if they ran away in cowardice. We only ever had a few dozen prisoners in the first two years, or so I’m told. Nowadays, deserters are just flogged when they are caught and then sent back to the front lines.’ Jeffrey ran his hand along the bars as he spoke. Fletcher shuddered and followed him down the long corridor.
He was surprised when the claustrophobic tunnel opened out into an enormous room. It was shaped like the inside of a coliseum, with concentric rings of stairs that also served as seats, encircling a sand-covered enclosure. Fletcher estimated it could easily fit an audience of five hundred.
‘What the hell is this doing here?’ Fletcher asked. Surely there could be no explanation for a gladiatorial arena such as this in the basement of the academy.
‘What do you think, boy?’ came a rasping voice from behind him. ‘Executions, that’s what it was for. To give the soldiers and novices heart whenever we captured an orc, so they could see that they die just like any other creature.’
Fletcher and Jeffrey spun to see a near toothless man with greying hair, leaning on a staff. He was missing his right foot and hand, which had been replaced by a thick peg and wickedly sharp hook. Stranger still, he wore the chain mail armour of the unmodernised army, resplendent in dark green and silver from one of the old noble houses.
‘Of course it was never used. Who ever heard of an orc being captured alive!’ He cackled to himself and held out his left hand, which Fletcher shook.
‘We captured a few gremlins, but watching them cower and piss their loincloths wasn’t very gratifying. They probably have more of a quarrel with the orcs than we do, what with them being enslaved and all,’ the man said, limping down to the arena with a lopsided gait.
‘Well come on, let’s see what you can do with that khopesh. Long time since I’ve seen one of them.’ The man brandished his staff and pointed it at Fletcher’s sword. ‘I may have lost my good hand in the war, but I can still teach you a thing or two with my left. Hell, I must be able to; that’s my job, isn’t it!’
‘Who the hell is that?’ Fletcher whispered, wondering what kind of madman would choose to spend his free time down in the dungeons. Jeffrey leaned in and whispered back.
‘That’s Sir Caulder. He’s the weapons master!’
Sir Caulder scraped a line in the sand with his staff and beckoned Fletcher closer.
‘Come on. I may be a cripple, but I’ve got things to do.’
Fletcher jumped into the arena and advanced towards him, cautioning Ignatius to stay beside Jeffrey with a thought. Sir Caulder winked at him and raised his hook in mock salute. ‘I know officer material when I see it, but can you fight like one?’