Summoner: The Novice (Book 1) SAMPLE OF NOW PUBLISHED BOOK

Chapter 8

Fletcher opened his eyes and immediately regretted it. The light that cut through his open window was glaringly bright. He sat up, shivering, and stumbled to close it, his breath pluming in the chill air. He must have left the window open in his drunken state.

He blinked in the dark room, but could not see the soldier, only the pile of furs he had given him stacked in the corner. With a growing fear, Fletcher pushed his way outside and saw that Rotherham's mule was gone; there was no sign of him anywhere.

'Finally awake, are you?' asked Berdon from behind him, his voice tinged with disapproval. He was standing by the forge with his arms crossed and a bemused look upon his face.

Fletcher nodded, unable to speak as he felt the first wave of nausea hit him. He was never going to drink again.

'The soldier filled me in on last night's events before he left. I can't say I approve of fighting, nor the rather too literal close shave you had. But I'm glad you gave that little upstart a seeing to,' Berdon said with a rueful smile. He tousled Fletcher's hair in rough affection, making his head shake dizzily. Fletcher retched and sprinted outside, before emptying the contents of his stomach on the cobbles.

'Serves you right! Let that be a lesson to you,' Berdon called, chuckling at Fletcher's misfortune. 'Just wait until you try hard liquor. You'll wish you feel the way you do now the morning after that experience.'

Fletcher groaned and tried to cough the bitter taste of acid from the back of his throat, then tottered back into the forge. He gathered up the furs that had constituted Rotherham's makeshift bed and slumped on to the cot in his room.

'I think it's all out now,' he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

'Aye, you've left a nice meal for the rats outside,' Berdon called from the forge. 'I'll fry you up some pork sausages and collect some ice-cold water from the well.'

Fletcher felt ill at the thought of food, but decided it would do him some good. He rolled over to go back to sleep and lay in the comforting warmth of the fresh furs for a while. The sizzle of frying sausages began and he shifted, trying to get comfortable.

There was something under him, digging into his side. He reached down and pulled it up to where he could see it.

A sack had been left amongst Rotherham's furs, with a piece of parchment affixed to the outside. Fletcher tore it from its purchase and squinted at the near illegible scrawl.

The soldier had not been lying when he said he didn't know his letters, but Fletcher understood it well enough. The wily old man had slipped away in the morning, but had left Fletcher a gift in lieu of a farewell. Fletcher didn't mind. He was sure he would see Rotherham soon, although he was not exactly sure what he would do with a gremlin's loincloth, if that was what he had been left with.

He pulled the drawstring of the sack open and his hand felt something hard and oblong. It couldn't be . . . could it? He shook the contents of the sack out and gasped with disbelief, clutching the object with both hands. It was the summoner's book!

He stroked the soft brown leather, tracing his fingers along the pentacle etched on the front. Strange symbols dotted the corners of the star, each one more alien than the last. He flicked through the pages, finding every inch filled with finely scribbled handwriting, broken intermittently with sketches of symbols and strange creatures that Fletcher could not recognise. The book was as thick as an iron ingot and weighed about the same as well. It would take months to go through it all.

The sound of Berdon plating up the food reached his ears, and he rushed to hide the book under the furs.

Berdon brought the sausages in and laid them on the bed with exaggerated care. Fletcher could see they were perfectly browned on all sides and seasoned with rock salt and ground peppercorns.

'Get this down you. You'll feel better soon.' Berdon gave him a sympathetic smile and walked out of the room, closing the door behind him.

Despite the delicious smell that filled the room, Fletcher ignored the food and uncovered the book once again.

A single page slid out from the very back of the volume, the paper made from a strange, leathery fabric, different from the rest. Fletcher opened it at the place where it came from and read the words inscribed in the book there.

The last few words were an untidy scrawl, as if the writer had been in a hurry. It was clearly a diary of some sort. Fletcher flicked to the front to see if there was a name and indeed there was; inscribed in golden letters were the words The Journal of James Baker.

Fletcher recognised the common surname. The man must have been one of the few commoners who had the ability to summon, an occurrence discovered purely by chance when a nosy stable boy had read something he was not supposed to and summoned a demon by accident. With that revelation, most boys and girls of around Fletcher's age from the big cities were now tested for the tiny trace of summoning ability required to control a demon. But Pelt was too small and secluded to warrant a visit from the Inquisition.

He inspected the loose sheet, pulling a face as he realised what the material was made from. Barbaric runes scarred it, with the summoner's neat handwriting below spelling out their pronunciation phonetically.

Fletcher grinned and began to eat his sausages, savouring every slice. It was hard to keep his eyes from straying back to the grisly page. He knew what he was going to be trying his hand at tonight . . .

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