‘I never got a good look at it in the dark. It looked like a flying beetle and it was ugly as sin, but I’m thankful to it; without it I would be a dead man. In the end, the summoner stumbled and fell, and I saw a javelin had winged his side. The bugger was bleeding like a stuck pig. There wasn’t much I could do for him, but the damned demon wouldn’t leave without him, so I picked him up and carried him away. The poor bastard must have died before we reached the trenches, but the demon led me back all the same. The little varmint wouldn’t leave his side when I brought the body back. They tried to do me for desertion, but I told them I was carrying the wounded and the rest of the troop got lost behind. They didn’t know what to do with me, with my squad dead an’ all and my age being what it is, so in the end, they chaffed me. My only consolation was the summoner’s pack, full of some of the goodies you see before you. But that wasn’t the real gem . . .’ He rummaged through the saddlebags by his feet and suddenly Fletcher realised what it had all been leading up to. Perhaps the soldier did this with every crowd, reeling them in with his story, then bringing out the most expensive piece.
Yet what the soldier removed with a flourish was not the shrunken head or preserved demon he had been expecting. It was a book, bound in heavy brown leather, with thick vellum pages. It was the summoner’s book!
5
If the soldier had expected to impress his crowd, he was mistaken. Most looked on ambivalently and there were even a few groans. In a small hunting town such as Pelt, learning to read was far down the list of priorities. Many villagers would struggle to get through the first page, let alone the entirety of a thick book. Fletcher, on the other hand, had been put in charge of Berdon’s finances, which required him to be both numerate and literate. The many long hours he had spent sweating over his numbers and letters had cost him precious time to play with the other children, but he was proud of his education and was sure he was just as learned as Didric, if not more so.
The soldier smiled as he brandished the book, holding it up in the grey winter light and flicking through the pages, giving Fletcher a tantalising glimpse of scrawled handwriting and intricate sketches.
‘What else you got?’ asked Jakov, the disappointment clear in his voice.
‘Plenty! But they don’t get much better than this, if you will allow me to explain. Let me show you, before we move on to the next item,’ the soldier implored.
The crowd, though disinterested in the book, was not going to let free entertainment go to waste. There were nods of assent and urging from them, and the soldier broke into a snaggle-toothed grin. He hopped on to an empty crate from the next stall and beckoned the crowd closer, holding the tome above his head where everyone could see.
‘This battlemage was the lowest rank a summoner can assume, a second lieutenant to a regiment that hadn’t even finished their training. But he volunteered for that fateful mission, and when I looked through his book I understood why. The man was looking for a game changer, a way of summoning something new.’ He had their attention now, and he knew it. Fletcher gazed across the street, slack jawed, earning him a warning cough from Berdon. He straightened and busied himself with the stall, though it was already impeccably arranged.
‘The orc shamans summon all manner of demons, but they are mostly base, weak creatures, no match to what our own summoners can bring forth. Yet there are only a few species of demon our summoners are able to capture from the other world, with the occasional rare exception. So, although our summoners are more powerful than orc summoners many times over, that leaves us with only a few strings to our bow, so to speak. And what this battlemage was trying to do was to find a way, using orcish techniques, to summon the really powerful demons.’
During his night in the barracks on the elven front, Fletcher had overheard reminisced accounts of horrifying demons that slunk in the night, slitting sleeping throats and slipping away. Beasts that came clawing out of the jungle like wildcats and fought until their bodies were ragged with musket balls. If these were the base and weak creatures that the soldier spoke of, then he would not like to meet the demon of a fully-fledged battlemage.
‘So we’re to believe that book holds a secret that will change the course of the war? Or contains instructions on how to summon our own demons? Perhaps it is worth its weight in gold,’ a familiar voice scoffed, dripping with sarcasm.
It was Didric, back from the stables. He had been standing behind the next stall along, out of Fletcher’s view.
‘Your words, not mine, my good sir,’ the soldier said, tapping his nose with a knowing wink.
‘It would be more worthwhile to invest money in the pitiful weapons across the road than in your book!’ Didric smirked as Fletcher reddened at the jibe, then Didric strolled around the crate to the front of the crowd, carelessly kicking the rhino horn over as he did so.
‘Why would the summoner volunteer for such a mission, if he had already discovered this great secret? And why would you be selling it here, if the book was worth so much? As for it containing summoning instructions, we all know only those of noble blood and a few lucky others are blessed with the ability needed to summon.’ He sneered as the soldier gaped in surprise, but then the soldier rallied with surprising alacrity.