they trotted by. After Arcturus had allowed Sacharissa out in the open so brazenly, Fletcher did not see why he couldn’t do the same.
He tried to picture Vocans, but he knew so little about it that his mind ranged from imagining a sumptuous palace to a comfortless training ground for fresh recruits. Either way, his excitement mounted with every turn of the cart’s wheels.
Finally, they arrived at the frontier with the southern jungle, the boom of cannon echoing in the distance. Whereas before the dirt road they were travelling on was surrounded by green fields, this land was thick with weeds and pitted with heavy gouges in the earth, evidence of the war that had since passed this land by.
‘There’s the castle,’ the driver said, breaking his silence. He pointed at the murky shadow of what looked like a mountain ahead of them, obscured by a thick fog that hung in the air. The wagon had joined a queue of others, though these were delivering heavy barrels of gunpowder and crates full of lead shot.
‘Is that where the King lives?’ Fletcher asked.
‘No, boy. That’s Vocans Academy. The King lives with his father in a fancy palace in the centre of Corcillum,’ the driver replied, giving him a curious look. But Fletcher wasn’t listening. Instead he gazed open mouthed, as the fog was dissipated by a heavy gust of wind.
The castle was as large as one of Beartooth’s peaks. The main building itself was a giant cube, made up of blocks of marbled granite, with terraces and balconies layered into the sides, like decorations on a wedding cake. There were four round turrets on each corner, each one with a flat, crenulated top, stretching hundreds of feet into the sky above the main structure. A deep moat of black, murky water surrounded the castle, twenty feet wide with a steep bank on each side. The drawbridge was down, but all the wagons passed it by, moving towards the cannon fire that still boomed in the distance.
As they moved closer to the academy, Fletcher could see that the walls were thickly latticed with creeping ivy and tinged with lichen and moss; it must have been built centuries ago. The boards of the drawbridge emitted a dangerous creak as the driver clucked his skittish horses over the top of it, but they made it to the other side in one piece.
The courtyard was shadowed by the four walls around it, with only a small square of sky illuminating it, from several storeys up. It was dominated by a semicircle of steps that led up to a heavy set of wooden double doors; the entrance to the castle.
As soon as the horses’ hooves clopped on the cobbles, a fat man in an apron, with a puffy, red face, emerged from the shadows. He was flanked by two nervous looking kitchen boys who sprang to work unloading the wagon.
‘Late, as usual. I shall have a word with the quartermaster about getting a new supplier if this happens again. We’ve only half an hour to prepare and serve breakfast now,’ the fat man said, plucking at his apron strings with his pudgy fingers.
‘It’s not my fault, Mr Mayweather, sir. An officer forced me to bring this noviciate up, which took me half an hour out of my way. Here, boy, tell him,’ the driver spluttered, prodding Fletcher in the small of his back. Fletcher nodded dumbly, the reality of where he was beginning to hit home.
‘All right then. We’ll let this one slide, but you’re on my list,’ Mayweather said with an appraising glance at Fletcher and an even longer look at his demon. Fletcher dismounted as the last of the fruit and vegetables were removed from the back of the wagon and stood, unsure of what he was supposed to do. The driver left without a second glance, eager to be away and on to his next pick up.
‘Do you know where you’re going, lad?’ Mayweather asked gruffly, but not unkindly. ‘You’re not a noble-born, that’s obvious. The commoners have already been here a week and I know all the second years by now. You must be new. Did you turn down the
He tried to picture Vocans, but he knew so little about it that his mind ranged from imagining a sumptuous palace to a comfortless training ground for fresh recruits. Either way, his excitement mounted with every turn of the cart’s wheels.
Finally, they arrived at the frontier with the southern jungle, the boom of cannon echoing in the distance. Whereas before the dirt road they were travelling on was surrounded by green fields, this land was thick with weeds and pitted with heavy gouges in the earth, evidence of the war that had since passed this land by.
‘There’s the castle,’ the driver said, breaking his silence. He pointed at the murky shadow of what looked like a mountain ahead of them, obscured by a thick fog that hung in the air. The wagon had joined a queue of others, though these were delivering heavy barrels of gunpowder and crates full of lead shot.
‘Is that where the King lives?’ Fletcher asked.
‘No, boy. That’s Vocans Academy. The King lives with his father in a fancy palace in the centre of Corcillum,’ the driver replied, giving him a curious look. But Fletcher wasn’t listening. Instead he gazed open mouthed, as the fog was dissipated by a heavy gust of wind.
The castle was as large as one of Beartooth’s peaks. The main building itself was a giant cube, made up of blocks of marbled granite, with terraces and balconies layered into the sides, like decorations on a wedding cake. There were four round turrets on each corner, each one with a flat, crenulated top, stretching hundreds of feet into the sky above the main structure. A deep moat of black, murky water surrounded the castle, twenty feet wide with a steep bank on each side. The drawbridge was down, but all the wagons passed it by, moving towards the cannon fire that still boomed in the distance.
As they moved closer to the academy, Fletcher could see that the walls were thickly latticed with creeping ivy and tinged with lichen and moss; it must have been built centuries ago. The boards of the drawbridge emitted a dangerous creak as the driver clucked his skittish horses over the top of it, but they made it to the other side in one piece.
The courtyard was shadowed by the four walls around it, with only a small square of sky illuminating it, from several storeys up. It was dominated by a semicircle of steps that led up to a heavy set of wooden double doors; the entrance to the castle.
As soon as the horses’ hooves clopped on the cobbles, a fat man in an apron, with a puffy, red face, emerged from the shadows. He was flanked by two nervous looking kitchen boys who sprang to work unloading the wagon.
‘Late, as usual. I shall have a word with the quartermaster about getting a new supplier if this happens again. We’ve only half an hour to prepare and serve breakfast now,’ the fat man said, plucking at his apron strings with his pudgy fingers.
‘It’s not my fault, Mr Mayweather, sir. An officer forced me to bring this noviciate up, which took me half an hour out of my way. Here, boy, tell him,’ the driver spluttered, prodding Fletcher in the small of his back. Fletcher nodded dumbly, the reality of where he was beginning to hit home.
‘All right then. We’ll let this one slide, but you’re on my list,’ Mayweather said with an appraising glance at Fletcher and an even longer look at his demon. Fletcher dismounted as the last of the fruit and vegetables were removed from the back of the wagon and stood, unsure of what he was supposed to do. The driver left without a second glance, eager to be away and on to his next pick up.
‘Do you know where you’re going, lad?’ Mayweather asked gruffly, but not unkindly. ‘You’re not a noble-born, that’s obvious. The commoners have already been here a week and I know all the second years by now. You must be new. Did you turn down the
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