Fletcher used the time he had before the thieves arrived to coax the demon on to his shoulder. It dug its claws into the leather of his jacket, sensing his agitation.
'Be ready, little fellow; I think this is going to get messy,' Fletcher murmured, nocking an arrow to his bow and kneeling for better aim. The men rounded the corner and stopped, staring at him.
'Back off or I'll put this through your eye. I've no qualms about putting down a cutpurse,' Fletcher shouted, squinting down the arrow at the largest of them. The man smiled, showing a mouth full of yellowed teeth.
'Aye, I've no doubt. But you see, we're not so much cutpurses as cutthroats, if ye catch my meaning.' The man sneered and held up a curved blade. 'All we wants is yer purse and we'll be on our way, no harm done.'
He took a few steps forward, putting himself within ten feet of Fletcher. The demon hissed and huffed twin plumes of flame from its nostrils that flared just a few inches from the man's face, sending him stumbling back into the others.
'I'm not messing around here. Leave now or you'll regret it!' Fletcher shouted again, though his voice trembled. He glanced at the silent houses around him. Why hadn't anyone heard? Someone needed to call the Pinkertons. How wretched it would be to have made it this far, then to die in a dank alleyway on his very first night.
'Ah, a summoner. You're one of them adepts from Vocans Academy, aren't ye? Little past yer bedtime now, isn't it?' the man said, brushing himself off.
'Leave!' Fletcher said, realising the demon could probably only breathe fire a certain distance. He didn't want to test that tonight.
'Well now, ye've shown me yours. Let me show ye mine,' the man said, then whipped out a pistol and pointed it at Fletcher's chest. Fletcher almost loosed the arrow then and there, but the muzzle jerked as the man walked forward once again.
'Now which one do ye think will hit faster, the gun or that there bow?' the man asked with easy confidence. Fletcher eyed the pistol. It was an ugly thing, the metal rusted and the barrel cracked and worn.
'It doesn't look too accurate,' Fletcher said, backing away.
'Aye, yer right there. But say it missed, and you put that arrow through my eye? My two friends here will come at you sharp like, and slit you from ear to ear. We could both die here, or ye could make it easy and give us what we want. There's nowt spellcraft or a demon can do against a bullet, summoner,' the man said, his voice steady and confident. Something told Fletcher the thief had played this game before.
'I'll take my chances,' Fletcher said, loosing his arrow. The pistol belched smoke with a clap and Fletcher heard the crack of an impact near his chest. Light flared across his vision, yet he could feel no pain – perhaps that would come later. The demon's squeals rung in his ears as he crumpled to the ground, smiling grimly as he saw the thief fall with an arrow in his skull. The two men behind stood frozen; they had not been expecting Fletcher to go through with it.
'Wrong, actually,' came a well-spoken voice from the shadows at the end of the street. 'There's plenty spellcraft can do. Like throwing up a shield, for example.'
The scarred officer Fletcher had seen in the tavern emerged, striding in between the two men left standing. A growl came from the gloom behind him, so loud that Fletcher could almost hear it, rumbling in his chest.
'I would run if I was you,' advised the officer. Without a second look, the men turned tail and sprinted around the corner. From what Fletcher could hear, they did not make it very far. A loud snarl echoed from out of sight, followed by screams that swiftly descended into a horrid gurgling sound.
Fletcher covered his face with his hands and took deep, sobbing breaths. That had been a close call.
'Here,' said the officer, holding out his hand. 'You're not injured. My shield saw to that.'
Fletcher took it and was pulled to his feet. He patted his chest, finding no damage. Instead, a glowing crack seemed to hang in the air in front of him, like broken ice on an opaque lake. It was embedded in a large, translucent oval, floating in front of him, which was barely discernible to the naked eye. Even as he reached out to touch it, the shield faded into nothingness. He noticed the bullet had fallen to the ground, its round shape flattened by the impact.
'Follow me,' said the officer, striding off without looking at him. Fletcher paused for a moment, then shrugged. The man had saved his life; he wasn't going to question his intentions.
The imp clambered up Fletcher's back and slid into his hood as he followed, exhausted by the excitement of the encounter. He was glad, for the officer had been staring intensely at the demon.
'Sacharissa!' the officer yelled. A shadow detached from the gloom and nuzzled the officer's hand. The officer tutted in disgust as the creature's muzzle bloodied his fingers, then pulled out a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped them fastidiously. Fletcher darted a glance at the demon and caught sight of a dog-like creature with four eyes – a normal set, with a smaller set about an inch behind. However, the paws were more like a feline's than a dog's, with claws over an inch long and caked with blood. Its fur was black as a starless night, with a thick mane that ran along the ridge of its spine down to a bushy tail that put Fletcher in mind of a fox's. It was as large as a small horse, its back coming up to Fletcher's chest. He had imagined other demons to be the same size as his own, yet this one was large enough to be ridden. The enormous creature's flanks rippled with muscle as it prowled beside them, making Fletcher almost sympathetic to the men who had died at its hands.
He and the officer walked on in silence. Fletcher considered the tall man. He was hard-faced, yet handsome, perhaps in his thirties. The battlescar that adorned his face filled Fletcher with imagined scenes of battles being fought, arrows whipping overhead.
The streets were already beginning to empty, and though the creature attracted a few furtive looks, they were soon alone as they turned off the main road and down an empty street.
'What kind of demon is that?' Fletcher asked, if only to break the silence.
'A Canid. If you'd paid attention in your classes you would know that. It's probably the first demon they introduced you to, God knows it's the most common. So . . . you're a truant and a dunce! I would expell you on the spot if we didn't need every adept we can get, no matter how sorry an excuse they are for a summoner.'
'I'm not from the school. I only arrived in the city this morning!' Fletcher said indignantly. The officer stopped dead in his tracks and turned to face him. The man's unblinking milky eye stared at him for a moment, before he spoke.
'Our Inquisitors said that all the commoners who tested positive as adepts arrived at the school last week. If you're not one of them, who are you? A noble? And who gave you that demon?'
'Nobody gave me the demon. I summoned it myself,' Fletcher replied, confused.
'Ah, you're a liar,' the officer said as if he had finally understood, then continued walking.
'I'm not!' Fletcher growled, grabbing the man by his coat-tails.
In an instant the officer had him up against the wall, holding him by the scruff of his neck. Fletcher's imp hissed, but a warning growl from Sacharissa silenced it.
'Don't ever presume to touch me again, you little prig. I've just saved your life, then you decide to tell me a preposterous lie. Everybody knows that summoners must be given a demon by someone else before they can capture their own. Why, next you'll claim you walked into the ether yourself and plucked a demon out like a pea from a pod. Now tell me, which summoner gave you the demon?'
Fletcher kicked at the air, choking as his windpipe was crushed. A name floated, unbidden, to his mind.
'James Baker,' he gasped, patting at the officer's hands. He let Fletcher down and smoothed some imaginary wrinkles on his jacket.
'I'm sorry, I let my anger get the better of me,' he apologised, his face filled with regret as he saw the welts his fingers had left on Fletcher's neck. 'The war takes a toll on the mind. Let me make it up to you. I'll book you a room at my inn and I'll send you up to Vocans Academy on one of the supply wagons tomorrow. My name is Arcturus. And yours?' He held out his hand.
Fletcher took the hand and shook it, the violence instantly forgiven at the mention of the academy. Its reputation was legendary; the training ground of battlemages since Hominum was first founded. What took place there was a closely guarded secret, even to the soldiers that fought alongside them. Arcturus's invitation was far beyond anything Fletcher had dreamed possible for him and his demon.
'Fletcher. No harm done; I'd have far worse than a bruised neck if it wasn't for you. The way in which I received my demon is rather a complex one, which is why I was confused by your question. I'll explain it all to you tonight if you'll let me,' Fletcher replied, wincing as he rubbed his throat.
'Yes, you can tell me over dinner and a drink. My treat, of course. If I remember correctly, James Baker was not a very powerful summoner, so capturing a rare Salamander demon like yours would certainly have been beyond his means – though I suspect he would have kept it for himself if he'd managed to get hold of one,' Arcturus mused, continuing down the street.
'Is that what it is?' Fletcher asked, looking at his demon. He grinned as Arcturus turned into an expensive looking inn, smelling the telltale scent of cooking from inside. Tonight he would stuff himself with food and soak away his troubles in a hot bath. Then, tomorrow, it was on to Vocans Academy!
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