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

Chapter 16

Fletcher did not learn much more from Arcturus that night. The man was as good as his word, buying Fletcher a steak and kidney pie and listening to his story – leaving out Didric's part, of course. No sooner had Fletcher finished speaking than Arcturus excused himself and disappeared to his chambers. Fletcher didn't mind; he bathed in a steaming hot bath with a full belly and slept between silk sheets. Even the imp had feasted on a fresh, minced steak, devouring it in seconds before nosing his bowl for more. If Arcturus could afford such finery, surely the life of a summoner could not be all bad.

In the morning he was woken by an impatient man, who claimed that he had been instructed to take Fletcher to the academy. When Fletcher emerged into the street, the man bade him hurry up and sit beside him in the front of the wagon, or he would be late for his morning delivery of fruit and vegetables.

The journey took over two hours but the driver evaded Fletcher's attempts at small talk, his face pinched with worry at the traffic on the road. Instead, Fletcher passed the time by allowing the imp to ride proudly on his shoulder, grinning at the curious glances from people as they trotted by. After Arcturus had allowed Sacharissa out in the open so brazenly, Fletcher did not see why he couldn't do the same.

He tried to picture Vocans, but he knew so little about it that his mind ranged from imagining a sumptuous palace to a comfortless training ground for fresh recruits. Either way, his excitement mounted with every turn of the cart's wheels.

Finally, they arrived at the frontier with the southern jungle, the boom of cannon echoing in the distance. Whereas before the dirt road they were travelling on was surrounded by green fields, this land was thick with weeds and pitted with heavy gouges in the earth, evidence of the war that had since passed this land by.

'There's the castle,' the driver said, breaking his silence. He pointed at the murky shadow of what looked like a mountain ahead of them, obscured by a thick fog that hung in the air. The wagon had joined a queue of others, though these were delivering heavy barrels of gunpowder and crates full of lead shot.

'Is that where the King lives?' Fletcher asked.

'No, boy. That's Vocans Academy. The King lives with his father in a fancy palace in the centre of Corcillum,' the driver replied, giving him a curious look. But Fletcher wasn't listening. Instead he gazed open mouthed, as the fog was dissipated by a heavy gust of wind.

The castle was as large as one of Beartooth's peaks. The main building itself was a giant cube, made up of blocks of marbled granite, with terraces and balconies layered into the sides, like decorations on a wedding cake. There were four round turrets on each corner, each one with a flat, crenulated top, stretching hundreds of feet into the sky above the main structure. A deep moat of black, murky water surrounded the castle, twenty feet wide with a steep bank on each side. The drawbridge was down, but all the wagons passed it by, moving towards the cannon fire that still boomed in the distance.

As they moved closer to the academy, Fletcher could see that the walls were thickly latticed with creeping ivy and tinged with lichen and moss; it must have been built centuries ago. The boards of the drawbridge emitted a dangerous creak as the driver clucked his skittish horses over the top of it, but they made it to the other side in one piece.

The courtyard was shadowed by the four walls around it, with only a small square of sky illuminating it, from several storeys up. It was dominated by a semicircle of steps that led up to a heavy set of wooden double doors; the entrance to the castle.

As soon as the horses' hooves clopped on the cobbles, a fat man in an apron, with a puffy, red face, emerged from the shadows. He was flanked by two nervous looking kitchen boys who sprang to work unloading the wagon.