‘Now, Trebius!’ Tarquin shouted, sending the Hydra charging towards them with a hiss, followed by a bounding Tamil. Solomon spread his legs and unleashed a guttural roar, raising his stone fists. Ignatius reared back on his hind legs and took a deep breath, ready to let forth a gout of flame.
Suddenly, a flash of golden fur raced between the four demons; Sariel had arrived on the scene. Her aureate mane was standing on end, all four eyes blazing with anger. The Canid’s usually elegant snout was wrinkled in a fearsome snarl that was all teeth and dripping saliva. She pawed the ground with her front claw, leaving four grooves in the leather. This time, the Hydra paused.
‘Stop this!’ Sylva cried out. ‘Have you forgotten who the enemy is? We are all on the same side!’
‘Not officially; or have the elves surrendered already?’ Tarquin spat maliciously. ‘You are a glorified hostage, nothing more.’
Sylva bristled at his words and Sariel barked, feeling her anger.
‘Come now, Tarquin, let us not forget ourselves,’ Isadora said, laying a calming hand on Tarquin’s shoulder. ‘The elves may very well soon be our allies. The Forsyths and the elven clan chieftains could greatly benefit each other . . . remember?’
Fletcher saw her squeeze Tarquin’s arm, digging her nails into his flesh. Tarquin paused and then bowed his head, beckoning Trebius to take a few steps back.
‘I apologise, I was caught up in the moment. Battle fever, you understand,’ Tarquin muttered, but his face was still flushed with anger. He gave Fletcher a menacing look.
‘So, Sylva, what is it to be? The dwarf and the pleb . . . or us?’ Isadora asked. But she would never hear the elf’s answer.
The door slammed open and Arcturus stormed in, followed by Genevieve and two servants bearing a stretcher.
‘What is going on here?’ he roared. Sacharissa loped in and stopped beside Sariel, standing a full head taller than her. With a snap of her jaws she sent the other Canid back to Sylva.
‘Take her up to the infirmary now,’ Arcturus murmured, picking up Lovett and laying her gently on the stretcher. He brushed a curl of hair from her forehead and closed her eyelids, for they stared unseeing at the ceiling. The servants hurried her away, stumbling in their haste.
‘Now . . . someone is going to tell me what is happening here,’ he uttered, with barely restrained anger.
‘We were scaring off a Shrike that had come through the portal,’ Tarquin lied smoothly. ‘It’s gone now.’
Arcturus’s eyes turned to Fletcher, but Fletcher was loath to get the others in trouble. He kept his mouth shut, but he shifted guiltily. Arcturus narrowed his eyes and strode forward, throwing blue wyrdlights around the room. As the noviciates squinted in the electric glow, he spoke in a loud voice.
‘I hope you haven’t been thinking about duelling. The elves liked to duel. They lost demon after demon, until they didn’t have any left. Do you know what happens when there are no demons left? There’s no mana to open a portal. No way of replenishing numbers. That’s it, the ether is lost forever. You, Sylva, of all people, would be a complete fool if you were to duel here. The concessions your people had to give to get you here alone . . . you are to be the founder of a new generation of elven adepts, to whom you will be tasked with gifting their first demons. You are the first elven summoner in a thousand years. Do not take that lightly. If you lose your Canid, we will not gift you another.’
Sylva hung her head in shame, and Sariel whined, her tail between her legs. Fletcher was grateful that Sylva would take such a risk on his behalf and silently thanked her from across the room. They could have been in the middle of a duel and subsequently expelled if it had not been for her.
‘Any instance of duelling will be rewarded with instant expulsion. Commoners will have to join the rank and file with no further training. Maybe, if you are lucky, you will become a sergeant. As for the nobles, you will have the right to purchase a commission as an officer, shaming your noble house into bribing your way into the military. Even then, you will have to be privately tutored.’
Tarquin scoffed at Arcturus’s words and whispered something to his sister.
‘Is that what you want, Tarquin? The great Zacharias Forsyth, forced to buy his son’s way into an officership?’ Arcturus’s scathing voice was layered with sarcasm. Tarquin blanched at the thought, then rallied as he felt everyone’s eyes on him.
‘Pocket change.’ He shrugged, then his voice took a more sinister tone. ‘And half-nobles? What happens to them? I mean, you are the man to ask about that . . . or am I mistaken, Arcturus?’
Tarquin smiled as if he had won the exchange and Arcturus paused with shock. Then his face turned scarlet with rage and Sacharissa growled with deep menace, so loudly that the sound reverberated in Fletcher’s chest. Tarquin took a step back, realising that he had gone too far. Fortunately for him, Scipio ran into the room, his walrus face red from exertion.
‘I came as soon as I heard,’ he wheezed, panting for breath. ‘Is she all right?’