Free Summoner: Book 1: The Novice by Taran Matharu Page B

kindling together, then used a flint and the steel of his blade to spark at the tinder.
    ‘You couldn’t spare us some of that fire now, could you?’ Fletcher asked the demon, as the damp leaves he was using spluttered against the sparks. The demon unravelled at the sound of his voice, slinking down his arm to the ground. It yawned and looked at him with curiosity, cocking its head to the side like a confused puppy.
    ‘Come on. There’s got to be a way we can communicate,’ Fletcher said, curling his fingers under the demon’s chin and scratching it. The demon chirped and rubbed his hand with the side of its head. With each rub, Fletcher could feel a hint of a deep satisfaction on the edge of his consciousness, like an itch being scratched.
    ‘Fire!’ Fletcher announced, pointing at the woodpile. The demon yapped and whirled in a circle.
    ‘Shhh,’ Fletcher hushed, a flash of fear running through him. The lower mountains were notorious for wolves. He had already heard their howls in the distance. They had been lucky so far to avoid them.
    The demon silenced and cowered, crawling between his legs. Had it understood? Fletcher sat cross-legged in the damp, wincing as the back of his trousers became wet. He closed his eyes and wracked his brains, trying to remember if Rotherham had mentioned anything in his stories about how summoners controlled their demons.
    As he did so, he sensed the consciousness of the demon, just as confused, scared and alone as himself. He sent it a wave of comfort and felt the demon stiffen, then relax, the fear and loneliness replaced by simple tiredness and hunger. Then it clicked. That was how: it didn’t understand his words, it sensed his emotions!
    He sent the demon a feeling of coldness, but the demon simply shrilled in discomfort and wrapped itself around his leg. Given how warm its body felt, Fletcher suspected it was not very familiar with any temperature other than one of warmth. Perhaps . . . an image? He pictured fire, bringing back memories of the hot furnace in Berdon’s forge.
    The demon chirruped and blinked its round, amber eyes at him. Perhaps fire reminded the little creature of home. Fletcher rubbed his numbed hands together in frustration; this was going to be harder than he’d thought. He slumped and pulled his threadbare jacket closer around his shoulders.
    ‘If I had managed to buy that jacket at the market, we wouldn’t even need a fire,’ Fletcher grumbled. He stared at the woodpile, willing it to burst into flame. Without warning, a gout of fire shot from between his legs, flaring the dank wood into a cracking blaze.
    ‘You clever little thing!’ Fletcher whooped, gathering the imp up in his arms and hugging it close to his chest. Already he could feel the warmth seeping back into his frozen limbs. He smiled as the mellow glow brought back fond memories of Berdon’s forge.
    ‘That reminds me,’ Fletcher said, dropping the demon into his lap and rummaging through the satchel. With the constant pursuit, he had almost forgotten the gifts Berdon had given him. He took the larger of the packages out and tore into it, his hands still clumsy from the cold.
    It was a bow, lacquered with clear varnish and strung with a fine braid of conditioned rawhide. The wood was intricately carved, the two ends curving in and then outwards at the ends, for extra power when bent back. The wood was yew, an expensive timber that Berdon must have purchased from a trader the year before; it did not grow on the mountains. He had treated and dyed it so that the usually pale bow had become grey, preventing it from catching the eye when the hunter crouched in the shadows. It was a beautiful and valuable weapon, the kind a master huntsman would pay through the nose to own. Fletcher smiled and looked up at the top of Beartooth, giving silent thanks to Berdon. It must have taken him months to make, working on it in secret when Fletcher was out hunting. There was even a slim quiver of