The Battlemage by Taran Matharu
While the others set to trimming the meat into thin strips, he began to flense the enormous fur, using Cress’s seax to scrape away the excess flesh. Soon he had a taut membrane of skin, pinky-white on one side and hairy on the other.
The most gruesome part came next. Lacking a pot, Fletcher was forced to cut away the skull from the Catoblepas’s head and use it instead.
“What the hell are you doing?” Othello moaned, watching as Fletcher cut and mashed the Catoblepas’s brain into a gooey paste.
“With my seax!” Cress exclaimed.
“It helps tan the hide,” Fletcher said, grimacing as he stirred the disgusting mixture. “Hunters have been doing this for centuries.”
Soon he was reluctantly spreading the liquid on the hide’s skin with his hands, while Ignatius blew toasty air to dry it. The fire had almost gone out by the time they had finished their work.
“We’re down to coals now, and I’ve put some logs of dry wood on top that will smolder and smoke all night. Now, help me with the skin,” Fletcher ordered.
The others took a corner each, and they heaved it up. Together they staggered to the fire and wrapped it around the meat-laden frame, where it was stitched in place by puncturing the edges with Sylva’s stiletto blade, threading them with the last of the sinew and using the tighten spell to keep it secure.
Finally, they stood back and admired their handiwork. A steaming cloud of smoke blew from the top of the structure like a chimney. Fortunately, the smoke seemed thin enough to disappear into the air before it broke the canopy.
“We’ll stoke the fire with green leaves and more wood throughout the night,” Fletcher said. “It should tan the hide and smoke the meat at the same time. Just remember, we’re not cooking it, we’re drying it out. So keep the heat low and constant—don’t pile up the fire too high. With any luck, it should all be ready in six hours from now. The fur will make for a useful covering if it rains, or at least make the shell more comfortable for Othello’s back.”
“Aye,” Othello said, rubbing his tailbone surreptitiously.
“I’ll take first watch,” Sylva said.
“Wake me in two hours,” Fletcher replied, gathering Athena and Ignatius into his arms and lying down next to his mother.
It was good to have full bellies, and with any luck they would have dried meat for days. But even so, Fletcher found that sleep eluded him.
He tried not to think about the time ticking by, ignoring the twinges of frustration at their slow, pondering pace through the murky forest. Yet with each breath he took, he knew that the air poisoned him, sucking the life from his body. There was nothing they could do, only wait, and hope.
He tossed and turned on the hard shell, listening to the creak of branches and the strange night noises of the woodland.
And finally, even as the sky began to turn bright once again, Fletcher slept.
CHAPTER
9
THE TEAM PEERED into the canopy above, munching on their petals. Their stomachs were already full—the jerky had made a good appetizer and Fletcher had cooked some of the Catoblepas’s enormous bones over their small fire, then cracked them open so they could eat the nutritious jelly of marrow within. He only wished they had some bread to eat it with—that was how he had eaten deer marrow when food was scarce in Pelt.
Their water had been replenished from a brief shower of rain that morning, which they had funneled into their flasks by stretching the tanned Catoblepas’s skin and catching it. The liquid tasted smoky, but was far fresher than the occasional puddle they had come across in the forest.
They had to put out the fire after their meal, for its smoke and smell might alert their hunters to their presence. Strangely, Fletcher had woken to find Ignatius curled up in the flames, slumbering among the glowing coals. Fletcher supposed after swimming in molten lava that a fire was child’s play, but he was concerned—Ignatius had never done that before. Othello’s voice broke into his thoughts.
“We need a new scout, especially for when we get to the other side of the mountains,” he argued, picking his teeth with a sharpened twig. “Athena can’t fly. Tosk or Ignatius might climb up one of the larger trees and get a look at the horizon, but we need to see what’s ahead.”
“Lysander’s too large. He might be spotted,” Sylva said quickly, but nobody was in disagreement.
“We need a Mite,” Cress mumbled, scraping the inside of a bone with her seax. “Or something like it.”
Fletcher knew they were right. They were nearly halfway through their supply of petals, and the mountains were looming above them. Sheldon had not deviated from his path, but it would be best to know what awaited them at the foot of the range.
“We should send the demons out to hunt on their own. They can avoid anything too big, but capture any small flying demons for one of us to harness,” Fletcher said.
Then he realized that he, and Sylva for that matter, had no experience with hunting or capturing demons from the ether—Rook had never allowed the commoners to hunt during their first and only year at Vocans.
“Did you do much hunting in the ether, Cress?” Fletcher asked.
“First-years were banned from going into the ether when I joined,” Cress said, shrugging her shoulders. “Something to do with what happened to Captain Lovett. I was so happy with Tosk, I didn’t really mind. Othello did some though, being a second-year.”
“Aye, that I did,” Othello said, scratching his head wistfully. “Solomon was bloody useless though; his great galumphing hands couldn’t hold on to anything small, and he’s too slow and loud to catch much anyway.”
“Well, I reckon all of us but Sylva might have a spare summoning level for a Mite,” Fletcher said, grinning. “You might as well let Solomon stretch his legs, however useless he is; he’s been infused far too long.”
So, Solomon and Lysander were summoned and sent with the other demons to hunt in the woods, which were becoming thicker and more tropical with every step that Sheldon took. In fact, he was now forced to follow a natural trail in the forest, so overgrown was the vegetation around them.
Soon they were seated in a circle, and Fletcher strapped on his scrying lens as the others stared at their crystals. Even Alice came to join them, though whether it was because of the smell of the meat or a desire to be close to them, Fletcher couldn’t tell.
Of all the demons, only Athena remained, nursing her broken wing while nestled in Alice’s lap. Both seemed contented to rest together, so Fletcher focused on his scrying crystal to watch Ignatius’s progress.
The Salamander was nimble in the forest, haring through the brambles and fallen logs with eyes to the sky. His excitement was infectious, and Fletcher’s heart quickened with every leap that took Ignatius deeper into the woods, away from the crashing tumult that Lysander and Solomon inevitably made as they fought their way through the thickets.
Lesser Mites buzzed here and there, but Ignatius ignored them—they would not do for a summoner, taking up a whole fulfilment level like a Scarab Mite would but lacking the mandibles, stinger and intelligence of their larger cousins.
Instead, Ignatius listened intently to the air around him. Fletcher knew that the Salamander could tell the difference between demons just by the frequency and timbre of wing beats, his hundreds of years of hunting in the ether having finely attuned his senses. Still, nothing. The Will-o’-the-wisps had stripped the forest bare of all but the lowest demons in the food chain. The only other demon he saw was a single Coatl hanging from a branch above—a snakelike demon that was coated in the gaudy, layered feathers of an exotic bird. But it was far too slow and conspicuous to be of any use.
As they waited, Fletcher explored his demon’s mind, hoping to hear the sound of prey. But … there was something different about Ignatius—and Fletcher was really noticing it now, while focused so intently. The Salamander’s consciousness was larger in his mind. It even felt as if the levels of mana contained within the little demon had grown too. In fact, ?
A jolt of excitement flared in Ignatius’s consciousness, dragging Fletcher from his thoughts. The Salamander was at the base of a tree, crawling up the hoary bark with deliberate care. Above, the wing beats of a new demon had caught his attention. Fletcher could hear them too, a dull throb in the air that intensified intermittently as the hidden demon flew to and fro.
Then he saw it, catching the iridescent gleam of its strange body. It was as if a winged lizard had been constructed from the body parts of insects. Its wings, though shaped like a Wyvern’s, were made from the same fragile material as a butterfly’s, with a webbed translucent patch in the center surrounded by the vivid blue-green mix of a shallow lagoon. Its body was marbled with the same color and appeared much like a beetle’s carapace that segmented at the joints. There were only four legs, but each one was covered in the finest hairs and ended in a small-pronged claw. A tail with a small but potent sting on its end acted as a rudder and counterweight.
But the eyes, the eyes were the most insectile of all: black spheres made of thousands of smaller shapes, sitting beneath a pair of ant-like antennae. Only its mouth remained reptilian, revealing a long, chameleonic tongue that whipped out to snatch a lesser Mite from the air.
It was a Pyrausta—so rare that there were no records of its capture, known only from the scribbled descriptions from summoners who had recorded the infusion memories of their demons. It was a poor fighter, but it was known for two particular talents, which it demonstrated as it alighted on a large leaf near Ignatius to consume its prey.
Instantly, the body turned the same bright green as the leaf, blending in so perfectly that it even mimicked the veins beneath it. The Pyrausta gulped down the Mite with the help of its front claws.
Even as Fletcher squinted at his lens, its antenna twitched—then it was darting away in a sudden burst of speed. The antennae were its second unique skill, allowing it senses that other demons could only dream of.
Ignatius was already in midair, predicting the sudden movement. Even so, he barely managed to touch it with one claw, hooking into the tail and dragging it with him as he tumbled to the ground. It thudded beside him and immediately Ignatius had ensnared it with his own tail, holding it aloft with its wings and sting trapped by its side.
It was neatly done. Fletcher sent Ignatius a congratulatory pulse of pride, and the Salamander yipped in excitement before scampering back toward the shell.
“I’ve caught something,” Fletcher announced. “Bring the hunters home; we’ve got a demon to harness.”
CHAPTER
10
THE PYRAUSTA HAD TURNED the same intense burgundy that colored Ignatius’s skin by the time the Salamander arrived, victoriously holding his captive aloft. Already Othello’s summoning leather had been placed beside the fire, the only one they had left after the supplies had been lost in the swamp.
“Bloody hell, a Pyrausta,” Othello grumbled, a hint of jealousy in his voice. “That’ll do perfectly.”
Fletcher knelt and rubbed Ignatius’s head, then stepped back and looked at his palm in astonishment. The Salamander’s skin was cool to the touch.
“He’s cold,” Fletcher said, furrowing his brow. “He’s never cold.”
“Weird,” Sylva said, crouching beside him. “May I?”
It was usually taboo to touch another summoner’s demon; at least, on purpose anyway. Fletcher nodded and she stroked her hand along Ignatius’s spine. Fletcher felt an involuntary pulse of pleasure, and his face blushed with heat. He turned away and busily tucked his leather jacket around his mother’s shoulders, hoping that Sylva wouldn’t notice.
“That is strange,” the elf murmured, straightening. “But lucky—it’s probably why he was able to capture the Pyrausta.”
“What do you mean?” Fletcher asked.
“Well, most summoners theorize that they’re able to detect a great deal with their antennae. Heat is perhaps the most fascinating. Some say they can feel the most minor air vibrations, even detect humidity. Most agree that their hearing, taste and smell are as good or better than a Canid’s. Ignatius’s heatless body must have confused it. I bet there aren’t many cold-blooded demons out here.”
Fletcher grinned and looked at the Pyrausta. A lucky catch indeed.
“Do you think Ignatius is able to change his temperature at will, or was it something else?” he asked.
Fletcher pondered Ignatius’s tail, which seemed even longer than before. Were his shoulder blades more prominent, like Khan’s black Salamander had been?
“Sylva, do you think he’s getting bigger?”
Sylva didn’t hear him, busy inspecting the beautiful demon. “Huh?” she asked, looking up at him. “I suppose so. He did just have a big meal.”
Fletcher couldn’t understand. Perhaps it was a strange reaction to what had happened in the pit of lava beneath the pyramid. Or was it his return to the ether? Eating the flesh of a demon? There was so little known about Salamanders, it could be one or a combination of all factors.
“Who’s harnessing it then?” Cress asked eagerly.
“Not me,” Sylva said, tousling Lysander’s head. “This beautiful Griffin is a level ten. I doubt I have enough fulfilment levels left to capture a Pyrausta, however many levels it is.”
“The species is level two, I reckon,” Othello said, kneeling and inspecting the captured demon. “Maybe three. Who has fulfilment levels to spare? I checked myself on the fulfilmeter before the tournament; I’m level fourteen now.”
“I’m still ten; five left for me,” Cress said, sounding hopeful.
“Finders keepers, right, Fletcher?” Sylva said, shaking her head.
But Fletcher was not so sure. Othello needed a demon like a Pyrausta, something fast and light and useful. Solomon, powerful though he was, was not a versatile demon. The Golem was a sledgehammer to the Pyrausta’s scalpel.
Othello was his best friend, his ally in all things. He owed the dwarf and his family so much. And what did Fletcher need with a Pyrausta? It was little use in battle with what appeared to be similar to a Mite’s sting, and Athena, though injured, was already a great scout. He didn’t need another. No. It had to be Othello.
“It’s yours, Othello,” Fletcher said, grinning. “You need it more than I do, and I don’t even know if my fulfilment level’s high enough anyway. I was nine last year, and that’s all used up.”
“I went up by three since then,” Sylva interjected, exasperated at Fletcher’s generosity. “Othello’s gone up by four. Have a go.”
“It’s all right, Sylva,” Fletcher said. “He needs it; Solomon’s slower than a herd of turtles.”
“You mean it?” Othello said, his eyes lighting up with excitement.
“Yeah, it’s yours. Go on, Ignatius will hold it over the pentacle for you.”
Othello needed no further persuasion, kneeling beside the pentacle and smiling ruefully as Cress moaned in jealous disgust.
“I’ll gift it back to him later, if he changes his mind,” Othello said, noticing Sylva’s raised eyebrows. Fletcher thought of another reason and spoke quickly before Sylva could say anything.
“Now if we get split up, everyone will have demons that can fly or climb up high to find one another again. It makes sense.”
Sylva sighed and waved them on, shaking her head at Fletcher. She seemed disappointed in him somehow. Maybe he was being too nice, but he didn’t care.
Ignatius strutted proudly to the summoning leather and held the Pyrausta over it. A second later and the pentacle glowed violet as Othello powered it up. Capturing a demon was much like infusing one, only much harder. Holding it in place was usually the tricky part.
Othello’s jaws clenched and unclenched. A vein throbbed in his forehead, and he allowed
“Go on, you can do it,” Cress said, shuffling closer and peering at the Pyrausta. Slowly, ever so slowly, the demon began to dissolve into slivers of white light. Othello groaned aloud, his face turning red as he strained to harness the demon. Finally, when he had turned so red that Fletcher began to worry, the last of the translucent light disappeared into the mat.
Othello fell back, his chest heaving with exertion. Then a blissful look plastered across his face as the euphoria of infusing a new demon took hold of him.
“Well done,” Fletcher said, patting Othello on the shoulder. “You know, you’re the first of us that’s actually captured a demon.”
“Half captured anyway,” Sylva said, but she grudgingly gave Othello a smile.
It took a few moments for Othello to recover, and then the Pyrausta was summoned again. It sat in the center of the mat as soon as it materialized, trembling.
“It’s so weird,” Othello murmured. “My mind feels so … full.”
“Tell me about it,” Fletcher said. “You’ll get used to it though. Do you think you can control it enough to send it scouting?”
“Aye,” Othello said, holding out a hand. The Pyrausta fluttered up and landed on his hand, looking up at him with its strange eyes.
“And it’s a she by the way,” Othello continued, lifting the demon to his face and peering at it in wonder. “I’ll call her Pria.”
CHAPTER
11
PRIA FLITTED BACK AND FORTH, her belly turning gray blue to blend with the sky and her top half a mix of broken greens to blend with the canopy—ideal should any predators flying above look down.
Othello brushed the large scrying stone against her tail, then she shot into the sky, much faster than Fletcher had expected. He had been lucky to catch her.
At first they saw a crystal-clear picture of the forest, then Othello grunted and the image flickered in shades of red, yellow and orange as the Pyrausta glided on the wind, high above the trees.