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

Chapter 6

The day went by excruciatingly slowly. Berdon was having a busy day, but the acrid stench of burning hooves was beginning to become unbearable. Every few minutes a soft pile of horse manure tumbled to the ground behind him, adding to the existing odour. There had only been one sale that day: a small dagger sold to a merchant who had decided to cut his haggling short to get away from the smell, producing a small windfall of twelve silver shillings.

The soldier across the road had not been as vocal as before, but he had still done very well for himself, selling most of the items that had been spread out on the cloth before him. There were only a few trinkets left, as well as the iron-tipped rhino horn and, of course, the book. Fletcher believed most of the soldier's story, yet he suspected that the book did not contain any secrets of value. He did not understand why the man would lie; whatever it contained, the book would provide fascinating insight into the secretive life of the battlemages. That, in itself, was a valuable prize, one that even now Fletcher would be bartering over if he did not so desperately want that leather jacket.

As he stared at the book, the soldier caught his eye and gave him a knowing smile. Seeing there were no likely customers in the vicinity, he sauntered across the road and fingered one of the better swords on Fletcher's stall.

'How much?' he asked, lifting it from its seat and twirling it in a practised manner. It thrummed the air like a swooping dragonfly, the man's dexterity and speed remarkable, given his greying hair and wrinkled face.

'It's thirty shillings, but the scabbard that comes with it is another seven,' Fletcher replied, ignoring the glitter of the spinning blade and eyeing the soldier's other hand. He knew every trick in the book, and the soldier's behaviour reminded him of a classic. Misdirect the eye by making a show of an expensive piece, then slip a smaller item, like a dagger, into a deep pocket while the vendor was distracted. The soldier rapped his knuckles on the table to get Fletcher's attention back to the item at hand.

'I'll take it. It has a nice balance and a good slicing edge. None of this fencing nonsense the officers keep mucking about with. You think stabbing an orc is gonna stop it before it tears your head off? You might as well stab a wolf with a toothpick. I learned quick: you chop at an orc's legs and they'll go down just like any man. Not that I'll need a decent sword for the northern front, but old habits die hard.'

He punctuated his last sentence with a downward stab into the earth, then pulled out his purse and began to count out the money. Fletcher retrieved the scabbard from behind the stall, a simple but sturdy piece made from an oak frame and wrapped in rawhide.

'They don't haggle where you're from?' asked Fletcher, after he'd taken the money.

'Course they do. I just didn't like the way that little bastard was talking about your stall. The enemy of my enemy is my friend, isn't that how the saying goes? I wish the elves thought that way. With them, it's more like the enemy of my enemy is vulnerable, let's stab them in the back whilst they're not looking,' grumbled the soldier. Fletcher remained silent, wary of venturing into politics. There were many who were sympathetic to the elves and a loud discussion on the subject might turn some of the traders away from getting their horses shod.

'I was enjoying your story before he came along. I hope I don't offend in asking, but was any of it true?' Fletcher looked the man in the eye, daring him to lie. The soldier observed him for a moment, then visibly relaxed and smiled.

'I may have . . . embellished a little. I've read the book in parts, but my reading isn't too good so I flipped through it. From what I can tell, he was studying the orcs, trying to learn from them. There's orc symbols all over the place, and mostly half-translated ramblings about their clans and ancestors. There are also sketches of demons, damn fine ones too. He was a good artist, even if he wasn't the greatest summoner.'

The soldier shrugged and took a dagger from the stall, using it to pick at the dirt beneath his nails.

'Shame though. Thought it would be nice to offload it here. I'll have to sell it for cheap on the elven border. There's some who are mad for battlemages in the ranks, but none of them have any coin. Maybe I'll sell it to several of them, page by page.' He seemed to like that idea and nodded to himself, as if his problem was solved.

'What about Didric? His father is a powerful man, and the Pinkertons are staying at his house! If it's your word against Didric's, I'm not sure how the cards would fall,' Fletcher warned him.

'Pah! I've faced far worse than a brat born with a bronze spoon in his mouth. No, those two coppers have seen me try and sell that book before, and they never said a dicky. They like soldiers, do the Pinkertons, think we're cut from the same cloth, even if all they do is beat up dwarves who look at them funny. Put a Pinkerton in front of an orc and they'll do what those horses have been piling on the ground behind you for the past few hours,' he said, wrinkling his nose.

'Well, make sure I'm there when Didric comes back for the book. I'd love to see his face when you tell him he can bugger off.' Fletcher rubbed his hands together with glee.

'Of course.' The soldier winked, then sheathed his sword and strolled back to the other side of the road, whistling a marching tune.

This was going to be good.

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