Free Summoner: Book 1: The Novice by Taran Matharu

have skipped their shift to hunt him down.
    The forge was lit by the soft glow of coals, smoking gently as they burned themselves out. Berdon was asleep in the wicker chair, in the exact same position he had been in when Fletcher sneaked out.
    There was no time to waste; he needed to escape. The thought of leaving Pelt cut him to the core, his heart clenching at the notion. For a moment he could see the life of a vagrant ahead of him, wandering from town to town, begging for scraps. He shook the thoughts from his head. One thing at a time.
    With a heavy heart, Fletcher shook Berdon awake.
    ‘What is it?’ he slurred, slapping at Fletcher’s hands. ‘I’m sleeping. Wake me in the morning.’ Fletcher shook him again, harder this time.
    ‘Wake up! I need your help. There isn’t much time,’ Fletcher said. ‘Come on!’
    Berdon gazed up, then started as the curious imp dropped from Fletcher’s shoulder on to his chest.
    ‘What the hell is that?’ he yelled, leaning as far away from it as possible. The demon squawked at the noise and gave a half-hearted swipe at Berdon’s beard.
    ‘It’s a long story, but I’ll have to make it quick. You should know I’m going to have to skip town for a while,’ Fletcher began, picking up the imp and laying it on his shoulder. It curled around his neck and emitted a soft purr.
    He spoke as quickly as possible, skipping the details but making sure Berdon understood all the facts.
    In the retelling, Fletcher realised what an idiot he had been to walk through the centre of the village, where anyone could have seen him. When he had finished, he stood there woodenly, hanging his head in shame as Berdon rushed around, lighting a torch and then packing things into a leather satchel. Berdon only had one question.
    ‘Is he dead?’ he asked, looking Fletcher in the eye.
    ‘I . . . don’t know. He hit his head pretty hard. Whatever happens, his face will be badly burned. They’ll say I attacked him with a torch; lured him to the graveyard, then tried to kill him. I’ve let you down, Berdon. I’ve been a fool,’ Fletcher cried. Tears welled in his eyes as Berdon handed him the deep satchel, the same one he had used to transport the swords to the elven front. He threw the book into the bottom with a sob, wishing it had never come into his possession. Despair seemed to be crushing his heart like a vice. The big man put his hands on Fletcher’s shoulders and gripped them, sending the demon skittering to the floor.
    ‘Fletcher, I know I’ve never told you this, but you are neither my apprentice nor a burden. You are my son, even if we do not share the same blood. I am proud of you; prouder than ever tonight. You stood up for yourself and you have nothing to be ashamed of.’ He gripped Fletcher in a bear hug, and Fletcher buried his face in his shoulder, sobbing.
    ‘I have some gifts for you,’ Berdon said, brushing tears from his cheeks. He disappeared into his room and came back holding two large parcels. He shoved them down into Fletcher’s satchel and gave him a forced smile.
    ‘I was going to give these to you on your sixteenth birthday, but it’s best I give them to you now. Open them when you’re far away from here. Oh, and you’re going to need protection. Take this.’
    A rack of weapons lay against the far wall. Berdon selected a curved sword from the back, where the rarer items were kept. He held it up to the light.
    It was a strange piece, one that Fletcher had never seen before. The first third of the blade was the same as any sword, a leather hilt followed by four inches of sharp steel. But next part of the sword curved in a crescent, like a sickle. At the end of the curve the sword continued on with a sharp point once again.
    ‘You’ve no formal training, so if you end up in trouble . . . well . . . let’s not think about that. This sickle sword is a wild card. They won’t know how to parry it. You can trap their blade in the curve of the sickle,