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

Chapter 30

The crowd pulsed with excitement, both outraged and thrilled at the same time. The fat man on stage flourished a club in the air, drawing fresh cries from the mob. Fletcher began to shove his way to the front, but was held back by Othello.

'Let go!' Fletcher shouted at him, struggling in the iron grip of the dwarf.

'We don't have any weapons, Fletcher. We need to go and get help!' Othello yelled back as the mob around them heaved.

'Who are we going to call, the Pinkertons? If we don't do something right now, Sylva is going to die,' Fletcher retorted, wrenching his arm away and barging forward.

He pushed and elbowed, but the crowd began to thicken as he got closer to the stage. Soon he was crushed in the mass of surging bodies, barely able to see above the heads of those in front of him.

'The elves are so bold that they walk our streets, like the war means nothing to them!' the man on stage shouted. 'Grindle, bring her here so we can show everyone what we do with elves who don't know their proper place.'

The crowd roared, some in favour, others in disagreement. The mood was as electric as the lightning that lit up the awning above them, freezing their screaming faces in place with every flash. The sun was almost set, with the sky the dark blue of winter dusk.

'What's going on?' Othello shouted from behind him, jumping up and down to try and see what was happening. Solomon was crouched between his legs, growling at the feet that stamped in the wet mud around him.

'I don't know. We need to find a way of getting through this crowd!' Fletcher yelled. The air was filled with the sound of thunder, angry shouts and rain drumming on the stretched cloth above. Sylva's scream cut through it all, a long screech of mindless fear that cut straight through Fletcher's core.

He gritted his teeth with frustration and tried to push forward once again, but all he managed was a few inches.

'Othello, get Solomon to make some noise! If we can't get past, we'll have to disperse them,' Fletcher hollered over his shoulder.

A bellow blasted from behind him, a deep bass roar that reminded Fletcher of a mountain bear. The people around them turned and scrambled away, leaving a few feet of empty space.

'Ignatius!' Fletcher shouted, sending the demon on to his shoulder with a thought. The imp discharged a heavy plume of flame into the air, scaring the rest of the crowd into giving them a wider berth. As a path opened, they hurled themselves up the stairs and on to the stage.

Fletcher took in the scene at a glance. Sylva's head was being held on a block by the angry speechmaker, who was kneeling beside her prone figure. Grindle had his club raised, about to smash her head to pieces. The poor girl was blindfolded – she wouldn't even see it coming.

Ignatius reacted instinctively, spitting a ball of fire that took the fat man high in the shoulder and blasted him off his feet. As the heavy body collapsed to the ground, Othello sprinted in and kicked the speechmaker in the side of the head with a sharp crack, knocking him out cold.

Three more men charged at the dwarf, armed with cudgels not unlike those the Pinkertons carried. Othello took a blow to the face and went down like a puppet with its strings cut. Before the man could swing again, Solomon punched the man in the leg, bending it sideways with a sickening crunch. The Golem clambered on to his chest and stamped down. The pop of snapping ribs made Fletcher's stomach churn.

The other two began to advance, swinging their cudgels with practised ease. Fletcher blanched and danced backwards to buy himself more time, wishing he had not left his bow in his room. This was going to be tricky.