Peter Relish: The Sword of Hecate

By Ben T. Clarke

Peter Relish Series Book 1

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Peter Relish's life takes an extraordinary turn when he receives his deepest wish: to attend Hecate's Academy, the most renowned school for young

• Language: English
• Publisher: Frozen Moon Press
• Release date: Nov 24, 2023
• ISBN: 9781739456108

Ben T. Clarke

Ben T. Clarke is the founder of Frozen Moon Press, and the author of the Peter Relish Series. Ben focuses on writing enchanting middle grade and young adult fantasy novels. When Ben isn't writing he can be found taking pictures, making films, or racing bikes through woods.

Book preview

Part 1

The Demigod

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CHAPTER 1

The Last Day Of School

PETER JUMPED OUT OF BED as if it were Christmas morning. ‘Last day of hell! Sorry, I mean school.’ He giggled to himself as he grabbed his uniform from his bedroom floor and skipped down the hallway.

Peter and his mother lived in a house as old as time itself. The floors were creaky wood, and a musty library smell lingered, no matter how much they cleaned and air freshener they used.

Their house was in a well-off area of the city, Bristol. Most of their neighbours were business owners, managers, or the rich older people, all of them with deep pockets. Peter and his mother were the exception. They weren’t poor, but their pockets didn’t run deep.

Peter got out of the shower, feeling fresh. He dried his acorn-brown hair, which stuck up in odd directions, and got dressed.

As he walked towards the stairs, he stopped outside his father’s study and tried to open the door. Locked. Mother kept the key hidden. He had entered the study once when his father was alive. He couldn’t remember what he’d seen. He was only six or seven and had wandered in there when it was left unlocked.

Father spent days in there, coming out only to use the toilet or to eat. When he came out his hair was a mess, ink smudged on his skin, and a shower wouldn’t have hurt him.

Peter’s mother had forbidden him from going into the study. What could be in there? He twisted the doorknob every time he passed, hoping it would be unlocked one day.

Peter could imagine what was in there. Some sort of magical equipment. His dad was a sorcerer and a great one, too. He was always getting up to some sort of trouble with magic in there.

He shrugged and walked downstairs. If it wasn’t unlocked by the time he left for Hecate’s Academy in a couple of months, then his curiosity would force him to break the door.

The fresh scent of ginger and turmeric drifted into Peter’s nose as he entered the kitchen. Mother rushed around, lining up her ingredients on the marble countertop. Each morning before she went to work, she would make the most ludicrous smoothie Peter had ever seen. Blueberries, bananas, mangos, spinach, oats, turmeric, ginger, cinnamon, peanut butter, protein powder, five types of milled seeds, and a ton of other random plants and spices. How someone could fit that much into a blender was a mystery.

Peter spread his arms to make a grand entrance. ‘Mother!’

‘Last day of primary school,’ she said, pouring blueberries into the blender. ‘How’re you feeling?’

Peter sighed long and loud. ‘Terrible. It’s gonna be so sad.’

Mother laughed and pushed a loaf of bread towards Peter. ‘Get some breakfast.’

He dropped two slices of bread into the toaster. As he waited, he flattened his palm, emptied his mind, and watched blue sparks dance on his hand. Today was the last day he needed to tolerate non-magic school. His classmates would be sent to secondary school whilst he’d be attending Hecate’s Academy.

‘Stop with your magic and eat, or you’ll be late,’ Mother said, pulling the toast out of the toaster and dropping it on a plate.

Peter stared at the brown squares with wisps of smoke curling off them. He often lost track of time when he performed the blue spark spell.

‘It’s the last day. What are they gonna do, expel me?’

He took the strawberry jam from the fridge, ignoring the butter, which had no place on toast, and spread it on. He ate at a snail’s pace. Once he finished, he grabbed his sketchbook and his bag from his bedroom. Before he left, he poked his head into the kitchen. His mother sipped her smoothie whilst flicking through a fitness magazine.

‘Will you be there today?’ Peter asked.

She stopped, staring at the bright purple liquid. ‘I’ve got a long shift today. The boss won’t let me take any more days off. I wish I could.’ She perked up. ‘You know what? I’ll take you out for ice cream tonight. How about that?’

Peter grinned. ‘Deal.’

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THE CLASS SAT on the stage at the front of the school hall. Tallest children sat at the back, whilst the shorter ones were at the front. Peter, being short and scrawny, was at the front. Rows of seats lined the hall where the parents sat.

Each student held a card on which they had written their favourite memory of school. Peter struggled to find a pleasant memory of school. His best was when he’d punched his arch-enemy, Will, in the jaw, but he couldn’t say that in front of a hundred people.

One by one, each student stood and read from their card. Peter glimpsed behind to see Will. He had his head down, staring at the words on his card. Will’s shiny maroon badge with Head Boy engraved on it was pinned proudly to his uniform. His brown hair was combed back. Peter grinned. What would Will think of his memory?

Sara Fry stood on Peter’s left. He readied himself to stand.

‘My favourite memory was when we won the netball competition,’ Sara said. ‘We worked so hard for it, and it paid off.’

Peter stood. His hands sweated. People surrounded him. All the parents, all the teachers, all of his classmates.

He cleared his throat and grinned. ‘My fondest memory,’ Peter said, putting extra exaggeration on each word, ‘was the first time I met my greatest friend of all time, Will Spare. Thank you for all the memories, Will.’ Peter sat.

‘What the hell was that?’ Will whispered. ‘Since when have we been friends?’

Peter rolled his eyes. ‘It’s called sarcasm.’

‘I’ll show you sarcasm,’ he spat.

Will – the star pupil. Yew Tree Primary School’s pride and joy. And not to mention the most popular kid; everyone loved him. Nearly everyone. Peter couldn’t remember when or how it started, but they’d had a rivalry for as long as he could remember.

Unlike Peter, Will was a non-magic. Peter was the only sorcerer in the school. His mother made it as clear as the summer sky that he must tell zero non-magics he was a sorcerer. Sorcery went extinct hundreds of years ago – at least that’s what the non-magics believed. Those who hunted the magical kind still existed. Few pursued witch hunting, as it wasn’t worth the risk. However, Peter entertained the delicious thought of zapping Will in the backside. That would be on the top of his list if he were allowed to use magic in public. Of course, he would need to learn how to give electric shocks first.

‘Hey?’

Will’s breath was hot on Peter’s ear.

‘Mummy isn’t here?’ Will said, as if speaking to a four-year-old.

George – Will’s best friend – whispered to Peter, ‘Why not?’

Peter kept his head facing forward. He didn’t want his mum watching this awful assembly, anyway. He was glad she wasn’t here.

‘Does she not care about you? Or has she gone off and died?’ Will said. ‘Has she gone off and died like Daddy?’

Peter’s hands locked onto his knees. What did he say? He clenched his fist. Resist. Resist. A few more hours and then I’ll never need to see him again.

Will snickered. ‘Do you have two dead parents now? How sad.’ He stopped doing the baby voice. ‘Well, I say good. The fewer Relishes the bett—’

The audience of over one hundred people no longer mattered as Peter twisted and planted his fist into Will’s nose. Gasps erupted from the audience as the children around Peter scuttled back. He got ready to throw another punch, but Mr E, the physical education teacher, grabbed both of his arms and dragged him off the stage.

‘I’ve got this!’ Mrs Johnson shouted as she ran up the aisle of seats.

Peter wriggled in Mr E’s arms. ‘Did you hear what he said? How? How does he get away with everything?’

‘Quiet, boy,’ snapped Mr E.

Students surrounded Will, asking if he was okay. He shrugged it off, reassuring everyone he was great.

‘It’s alright, Mr E,’ Mrs Johnson said. ‘Come along now, Peter. Let’s go back to class.’

Mrs Johnson – the only decent teacher in the school. Her face was lined with deep wrinkles, and her brown hair which showed grey at the roots was tied into a loose bun.

She walked Peter up the aisle. The audience pointed at him, mumbling and shaking their heads.

‘What an awful child,’ said a parent.

Peter shot her a dirty look. He might have felt embarrassed if he wasn’t burning with rage. Could they not see it? Could they not see how disgusting Will was?

Mrs Johnson led Peter out of the hall and into the corridor. She didn’t speak or look at him until they were back in their classroom.

‘Seriously?’ she said, as she sat behind her desk. ‘You couldn’t go one more day without getting into a fight with Will?’

Peter sat on top of the table closest to Mrs Johnson’s desk. ‘You should’ve heard what he said. He said my dad’s better off dead. I don’t understand how no one ever hears or sees what he does. Everyone thinks he’s perfect. He’s even head boy!’

Mrs Johnson sighed. ‘He shouldn’t have said that. But that does not give you the right to go around fighting people. It’s the last day, so I won’t call your mother, but when you go to secondary school, you must promise me you will stop fighting with Will.’

‘We’re going to different schools. Today is the last day I will ever see him again.’

She frowned. ‘It’s a shame you two need to leave on a bad note. You’ve got so much potential. But you waste it all worrying about what Will says and does. Next year, focus on yourself and please, at least try to make friends. Life will be easier with them.’ She stood and walked towards the door. ‘I’ll be going back to the assembly now. Stay in here until it’s over. Okay?’

Peter sighed and looked down at his knuckles. They were maroon. No doubt they’d bruise. The assembly couldn’t go on for much longer, five or ten minutes, maximum. He took out his sketchbook and drew. His favourite way to distract his mind. By no means was he an artist, but it helped him escape.

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THE PENCIL RACED across the pages of his sketchbook as the students flooded into the classroom. As they walked past Peter, they showered him with evil stares and snarky comments.

‘You’re evil, Peter.’

‘What did Will ever do to you?’

Peter ignored their comments. Why should he care what they think? After today, he’d never see them again.

‘You’re jealous of him,’ Sara Fry said. ‘That’s what it is.’

Peter looked at her. She had sat next to him in the assembly. She had heard what Will said but still defended him. Will had everyone wrapped in his delusions.

Mrs Johnson pulled out a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed her eyes. ‘I’ll miss you all. Every single one of you was a pleasure to teach. Now, be good at secondary school.’ She made eye contact with Peter. ‘And good luck.’

He flung his backpack over his shoulder and shoved his sketchbook under his right arm as he darted out of the classroom.

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BRIGHT RUSTY BLISTERS crept up the once-black school gates, which were opened wide to let the children out of the playground. Everybody enjoyed the sun and was glancing at the grey clouds moving in. Students said teary goodbyes to their friends whilst their parents gossiped or texted on their phones.

Peter held his breath through a cloud of cigarette smoke to reach the other side of the gates. The parents saw nothing wrong with having a quick smoke whilst they waited for their kids.

He walked to the entrance of his street with no challenges. Maybe today he’d be able to walk home in peace? He flicked through the pages of his sketchbook, admiring his doodles.

‘Go on, do it!’

Peter spun around to see who had spoken but found himself pushed to the ground. His sketchbook drifted out of his hands onto the rough asphalt. Will had grabbed it.

‘Oi! Give it back!’ Peter shouted, wiping the dirt from his hands onto his shirt.

‘You have some real nerve, you know.’ Will flicked through Peter’s leather-bound sketchbook. He pulled a face as if a vile stench had struck him. ‘What are these?’

Peter could admit his art wasn’t great, but no one could disrespect his art. Especially not Will. ‘You’re an idiot,’ he spat.

Will grinned.

Why can’t they leave me alone? Peter tensed his arm. Should I fight? Will and George were twice his size and would easily win. Peter wasn’t thinking in the assembly. Plus, Will would never have fought back with everyone watching. It would have destroyed his reputation. But Will needed to be taught a lesson. And Peter didn’t care how dirty a move he needed to pull to teach it to him.

‘Look at this one!’ Will laughed.

Peter balled his fists so tight his fingers went numb. He couldn’t take it anymore. ‘Give it. Or I swear—’

Will pulled his head back and spat on the drawing.

CHAPTER 2

A Bop To The Nose

A TREMOR SHOOK PETER’S BODY. Had it got hotter? Or was it just him?

George took the book from Will and spat onto the pages. He slammed the book shut and handed it back to Will.

‘You’re dead,’ Peter whispered.

Will turned to another page. He opened his mouth to spit onto another page, but a man’s screams interrupted him.

Will turned around and wiped the saliva from his chin. ‘Who’s he?’

Rounding the corner of the road was a young man with blond hair and dazzling blue eyes. He was tall and muscular, with tanned skin. He wore a tight black top and a pair of black shorts.

But the man wasn’t the strange part. The floating ball of light that chased him was. It was about the size of a football, flashing multiple colours, and it squeaked merrily.

‘Go to Tartarus, Hera!’ the man shouted to the sky. ‘Now you’re sending spirits after me? Wasn’t monsters enough for you?’

Peter’s skin prickled. The way this man spoke. He was no ordinary man. He spoke of gods and spirits; there was no doubt this man must be involved with sorcery.

‘What the hell’s that?’ Will stared at the flashing sphere chasing the man.

The strange man sprinted past Peter, but the spirit slowed. It stopped inches away from Peter’s face.

It let out a shallow squeak. Peter’s feet were glued to the ground. He’d never seen magic like this up close, it was mesmerising.

‘Um, Peter?’ Will said.

At the sound of Will’s voice, the light evaporated. Shouts from the man echoed further down the road.

‘What was that thing?’

George looked at Will, then at Peter. ‘That man? He was probably crazy or something.’

‘No,’ Will said. ‘That light. I’ve never seen anything like it before.’

‘What light?’

Peter gulped. Only sorcerers and Sights could see magic. Will and George were ordinary. If a non-magic was open-minded enough, they could see magical creatures. But Will was definitely not open-minded.

Peter stared at Will. ‘You have the Sight.’

‘The what?’

In the recent chaos, Will had dropped the sketchbook. His eyes were glazed over like he was trying to make sense of what had happened. Peter took the opportunity and grabbed the sketchbook. He left Will with a final parting gift – a punch to the nose.

He sprinted down the street. Will and George stood dazed for a few seconds before yelling and chasing after him. A small stream of blood trickled out of Will’s nose. It was a dirty move, of course. But playing dirty was so much fun.

‘HA! That’s what you get when you mess with me!’

This should have been the last time he would ever need to see Will again, but if Peter was correct and Will had the Sight, their paths may cross again.

‘Please, gods, don’t let Will be a Sight,’ he mumbled to himself as he ran.

His house wasn’t far away, so he sprinted down the row of black brick houses. Each house had a little front garden with beautiful flowers blossoming. But the one with the prettiest flowers was Mrs Daphne’s – Peter’s neighbour. She was watering her plants as she always did at quarter to four. He flashed her a quick smile before unlocking the front door and slamming it shut behind him. He stood on his tiptoes and looked through the peephole.

Will stopped outside his house, rolled his eyes, shook his head, and left. Peter collapsed against the door as he held his sketchbook tight to his chest and laughed. Then he stood and ran up the stairs to his bedroom, grabbed his textbooks, and went to the kitchen to study Greek mythology. There wasn’t much time left until he started at the Academy, and he needed a head start. Any thoughts of Will were eradicated from his mind. Will was no longer his problem.

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AFTER PETER FINISHED studying Greek mythology and doing his chores – sweeping the floors and cleaning the kitchen – he went to his bedroom. It was the smallest of the three in the house, but he didn’t complain. His room was his sanctuary. Above his bed were a few of his terrible sketches that he’d stuck to the wall. In the middle of them was his best; he’d even framed it. One evening he’d drawn the street outside his house from his perspective as he sat on the edge of the pavement. He was out there until the fluorescent lights lit the paths. The sketch even included Mrs Daphne watering her flowers.

Opposite his bed was a wooden desk. He’d made it with his father three years ago. It was awful. He’d lost count of the number of times it had collapsed, and he needed to prop it back up again. But he couldn’t replace it, ever. His mother had offered to buy him a new one countless times, but the desk was one of the few things he’d done with his father before he died. Replacing the desk would kill a memory. On the wall was a detailed family tree of the Greek gods. The Greek gods played a big role with sorcerers, so the more Greek mythology Peter knew, the easier his life would be in the future. He had watched hundreds of documentaries about Greek mythology. There wasn’t a single god he didn’t know.

Peter opened a loose floorboard underneath his bed, where he stored sweets and a tattered letter. He took the letter and jumped onto his bed and lay on his front, swinging his legs in the air. The paper was yellow with age, and the black ink had faded so that only a few letters were visible. But that didn’t matter. Peter had more than memorised the words; he had poured his entire life into it. His mother had given it to Peter the day his father died.

Dear Peter,

If you’re reading this, it means I’m dead. You’re set to start Hecate’s Academy on the 8th of September once you’ve left primary school. When all the other kids go to secondary school, you’ll be going to Hecate’s Academy. You’ll board at the Academy and come back for the holidays. I’ve arranged for a friend to pick you up on the 8th.

Now I’m no longer around to teach you magic, it is up to you to teach yourself before you go to the Academy. Remember everything I taught you. Our magic comes from Hecate, the goddess of magic. She passed down her control over magic to mortals. You already know the blue spark spell, this will be more than your classmates will know. Most people enter the Academy not knowing any magic. To teach someone magic is difficult – not to mention, it’s illegal to teach magic to anyone before attending an academy.

Stay safe. Stay Alive.

I love you, my son.

Love from Abbott.

It was approaching three years since his father’s death. Peter was nine at the time. Father was the greatest. Peter wanted to be like him. Many years ago, it was his father who’d taught Peter his first spell, the blue spark spell.

A man had come to the house to deliver Father’s death notification. Every detail of the man was fresh in Peter’s mind. He wore a purple suit, had black hair, stubble, and there was a timeless look to him.

Peter flattened the letter out and placed it back underneath the floorboard. He lay on his bed and held out his palm, facing the ceiling. Emptied his mind and watched the blue sparks dance. It was a simple spell to perform. No incantation was required. Peter needed to empty his mind – which proved to be the hardest part – then imagine sparks on his palm.

It was a sickening pleasure performing this spell, knowing it was illegal to know magic before attending the Academy.

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PETER AND HIS mother sat on a bench looking onto the river, holding cups of ice cream. The golden sunset danced on the water’s surface. It was quiet for a Friday night. They would count the boats as they went past, but there were barely any out.

Peter bit into his pistachio ice cream, making his teeth tingle.

‘How was the assembly?’ his mother asked.

Peter stared at his ice cream. ‘Boring.’

‘Really?’ Her voice was stiff. ‘What’d you do to your knuckles?’

His eyes drifted to his fist clutching the spoon. His knuckles were red and turning purple. ‘I tripped.’

‘You tripped onto your knuckles?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why do you lie to me?’ She sighed. ‘Did you get into another fight with Will? How many times do I need to tell you? Don’t fight.’

Peter opened his mouth, but his mother held up her finger.

‘No. I don’t care what stupid excuse you come up with this time. It’s never okay to—’

‘He said Dad deserved to die!’ Red flowed into Peter’s face. ‘W-Will’s evil! H-he’s awful. Just awf—’

His mother wrapped her arms around him. ‘He didn’t deserve to die. Your father was the bravest, strongest man I’ve ever known.’

Peter sniffed as tears rolled down his cheeks onto his mother’s shoulder. ‘I miss him. Why did he have to die?’

‘I miss him, too.’ She rubbed his back.

They separated. His mother’s eyes were red and dull. Her hand shook as she lifted the plastic spoon to her mouth.

‘The Academy will be better? Won’t it?’ He sniffed. ‘I’ll make friends.’

She licked the mint-chocolate-chip ice cream from the spoon and chewed it forever before she said, ‘How about a story?’

Peter rolled his eyes. ‘Not right now.’

‘No, this is good. So, how about it?’

‘Fine.’

‘I’m not like you. I don’t have magic in my blood, but do you know what I have?’

‘The Sight.’

Peter’s mother had told him many stories of her life, and they always began with the same introduction, about her being a Sight.

‘That’s right,’ she said. ‘I have the Sight, but I was also a Sight. A member of a group of warriors who could see extraordinary things. A child with Sight has a choice when they turn twelve, to either live as a regular human or join the group of Sights.’

‘But trying to live as a regular human with Sight was impossible, right?’

Peter loved this part of his mother’s stories.

A smile played on her lips. ‘Correct. Being able to see what no one else does leads you down a path of insanity. That’s why it’s important to live near at least one person who understands your Sight. Now, when I joined The Sights, we needed to train under a weapon.’

They got to the part that Peter hadn’t heard before. He stayed silent, begging her to continue.

‘I trained under the sword. I studied under the master of swords herself. My master’s the greatest person in the world. She’s like you.’ His mother tapped his nose. ‘She has magical blood. We went on a mission once, in the same magical forest Hecate’s Academy is in.’

Peter sat unnaturally still. ‘You’ve been to the Academy before? Why didn’t you tell me?’

She waved her hand down. ‘I’m getting to the point of the story. No more questions. I met a lot of the Academy’s students whilst I was there, including your father. These people were unlike any I’ve ever met before. They all came from different backgrounds, all unique, most of them friendly, and even though I was a Sight, they treated me like I was one of them.’

Peter stared at her. ‘Really?’

‘Yes. And you know