Summoner: Book 1: The Novice by Taran Matharu

fine, goose feather arrows. He might be able to catch a mountain hare in the morning.
    With that thought, Fletcher’s stomach rumbled. He put aside the second gift and delved into the bottom of his rucksack, taking out a weighty packet wrapped in brown paper. He opened this one with more care and smiled as he saw the jerky from the elk that Didric tried to blackmail from him. He put a few strips on the fire to heat up, then passed another to the demon.
    It gave it a wary sniff, then jerked its head forward and snapped at it, lifting its head upwards and gulping it down whole like a hawk.
    ‘Almost took my fingers off there,’ Fletcher observed as the smell of cooking venison wafted under his nose.
    He reached into the bag again to see what other food was in there. He felt something that jingled and pulled out a heavy purse.
    ‘Oh, Berdon, you didn’t,’ Fletcher murmured in wonder.
    But he had. From what Fletcher could see, it was over a thousand shillings, almost a year’s wage for Berdon. Even knowing that his business would soon be under threat, the man had given Fletcher a good chunk of his savings. Fletcher almost wished he could go back and return it, then remembered the three hundred shillings he had saved up for the jacket, still sitting in his room. Hopefully Berdon would find it, and the rest of Fletcher’s old possessions would likely fetch some money as well.
    ‘What else have you given me . . . ’ Fletcher whispered. He picked up the second gift and shook it, feeling something soft and light. There was a note pinned to it, which Fletcher tore off and read by the flickering firelight.

    Tears dripped on to the letter as Fletcher folded it, his heart full of longing for home. He opened the gift and sobbed as he saw the jacket he had wanted, burying his hands in the soft inner lining.
    ‘You were a better father to me than my true father could ever have been,’ Fletcher whispered, looking up at the mountains. Somehow, the words he had left unsaid over the years were what he regretted the most.
    The demon began to mewl at Fletcher’s misery, licking his fingers in sympathy. Fletcher patted its head and shuffled closer to the fire, allowing himself a few minutes of sadness. Then he wiped tears from his eyes, put on the jacket and pulled the hood over his head. His heart filled with resolve. He was going to make a new life, one that Berdon would be proud of. He was going to make it to Corcillum.

14
    The tavern reeked of unwashed men and stale beer, but then Fletcher supposed he didn’t smell too rosy himself. Two weeks of travelling in a wagon full of sheep did that to a body. The only fresh air he had managed the entire time was when he went out to buy cheap bread and thick slices of salted pork from the locals. He had been lucky; the cart driver had asked no questions, only charging five shillings and asking that Fletcher muck out the dung from the back every time they stopped.
    Now he sat in the corner of one of Corcillum’s cheap taverns, relishing the taste of warm lamb and potato broth. He had barely seen any of the city yet, instead entering the first tavern he could find. Tonight he would pay for a room and have a hot bath brought up; exploring could wait until tomorrow. He felt like the stink of sheep had become permanently ingrained in his skin. Even the imp was reluctant to venture out from its customary place within the confines of his hood. In the end he had to bribe it with the last of his salt pork, feeding it until it fell asleep.
    Still, the little creature had made the long, dark journey bearable, curling up in his lap to sleep in the cold of night. Fletcher could share in its feelings of warmth and contentment, even while he shivered in the soiled straw of the cart.
    ‘One shilling,’ said a woman’s voice from above him. A waitress held out a grimy hand, pointing at his food with the other. Fletcher dug into his bag and pulled out the heavy purse, then dropped a shilling into