Dawn of the Dreamsmith (The Raven's Tale Book 1)

by Alan Ratcliffe

  On the far side of the square was a small slope, at the top of which stood a building larger than the rest. It was twice as long as any of the houses, while it appeared somehow sterner – devoid as it was of any of the ornamentation of those that surrounded it. The roof was comprised of roughly hewn logs, unceremoniously lashed together to form a peak that ran the length of the building. “Who lives there?” he asked, pointing.

  Raven followed the direction of his outstretched arm. “That’s the langhus. It’s more of a meeting place for the town elders, but it’s true that Yaegar resides there.”

  Before Cole could ask anything more, a massive roar erupted above the din of the square. “Raven!” A man’s voice bellowed the name of his companion from behind them. Turning around, he saw a tall figure shoving his way through the crowd towards them.

  Cole saw Raven tense. Surreptitiously, he reached behind his back and placed a hand on the hilt of his knife. The tall man, who he now saw was wearing a sleeveless shirt that exposed muscles the size of his head and a thick leather apron, continued to push his way through the throng. Most of his face was hidden behind a thick beard, red as flame, but his brows were locked in a furious scowl. “Raven!” he roared again. “How dare you!”

  “Who is-” Cole began, but before he could finish the question, the bearded man was standing over them, glowering down at Raven. “How dare you,” he repeated. “We don’t see you for months at a time, and then you have the nerve to come back here,” the red beard parted in a massive grin, “and you don’t even stop to greet an old friend.”

  Raven smiled up at the man, squinting in the sunlight. “Hello, Bjorn.”

  The tall man roared again, laughing this time, then grabbed her in a rough embrace and span her around. “Ah, it’s good to see you again,” he said, as he dropped her back to the ground. “It’s been too long. Six months?”

  “More like a year,” she said. “I’ve been busy.”

  “Ha! Always the same Raven, dashing off in the night to Valdyr knows where. Who’s this?” he asked, noticing Cole for the first time.

  “This is Cole. He’s... a friend.”

  “Ah?” Bjorn stared at Cole from beneath a pair of bushy eyebrows, stroking his moustache thoughtfully. The red whiskers were long and plaited, tied at the ends with thin leather thongs. “Well, lad, any friend of Raven is a friend of Bear.” He thrust out an enormous hand. Cole shook it, and felt his arm nearly jolt from its socket. The red-haired man was as strong as he looked.

  “Now then,” Bjorn declared, “Did you want to stand here lollygagging all day being shoved by fat merchants, or shall we go to the tavern? Have you eaten?”

  “Food sounds good,” Raven replied. Cole’s stomach rumbled in agreement. “Why don’t you lead on, it will be easier with you clearing a path.”

  With a bark of laughter, Bjorn strode off across the square, Raven close behind and Cole following in their wake. Sure enough, the going was a lot easier, though Cole felt the need to apologise to the affronted bystanders who turned to glare at him after being shoved aside by their burly companion.

  The tavern proved to be close by, a short way down one of the narrow, earthen streets that branched off from the square. As soon as they left the market the crowd thinned, until they were the only ones in sight and could walk side by side.

  “You chose the wrong day to come back, Raven,” Bjorn grumbled. “We get fewer caravans lately, but when one comes in it gets crazy for a day or two.”

  “I don’t mind it,” she replied. “Sometimes it’s nice to simply lose yourself in a crowd.”

  “For you, perhaps. Crowds just make me angry. I have to hide indoors most of the time, in case I get the urge to start bashing people all around with my hammer.”

  “The town wouldn’t survive without the caravans, Bear.”

  He nodded glumly. “So Yaegar says. Me, I make a decent living off the Legion. But others are not so fortunate.”

  The tavern was larger than the surrounding houses, but built in the same style. As Bjorn pushed open the door for them to enter, Cole glanced up. Flowers had been carved elegantly into the wooden eaves, roses mainly, and were painted in vivid reds, yellows, purples and other colours besides. It reminded him of the Elder’s solar on the Crag, ringed with orchids.

  There were only a few others within, picking at the remains of their lunch and sipping from pewter tankards. They found an unoccupied table with ease. Bjorn sat with a heavy thump, and called out for food and ale.

  “Why aren’t many caravans coming through now?” Cole asked, after the landlord had bustled from the kitchen to place three foaming tankards and a plate stacked high with steaming bread rolls and roasted fowl on spits before them.

  “It’s the war,” Bjorn replied, tearing off a lump of bread and cramming it into his mouth.

  “I don’t understand,” said Cole. “Why would war far to the south affect trade in the north?”

  Bjorn swallowed with a loud gulp. “Look,” he said, grabbing their tankards and placing them at either end of the table. “Whitecliff and Westcove. One the gateway to the exotic east, with all its silks, spices and other Xanshian junk of no interest to a simple blacksmith. The other in the west, source of whale meat, seal skins and more fish than you can count. And between them,” he picked up the plate and slammed it into the centre, “the Spiritwood, a dark, dank, woebegone mess that nobody in their right mind would want to enter.” Finally, he tore off a small chunk of bread and placed it a small distance to the left of the plate. “Hunter’s Watch,” he explained.

  “For as long as anyone can remember, the men of the Watch have patrolled the Spiritwood, doing what they can to stem the darkness within,” said Raven. “As their trade grew, the great houses of the Whitecliff merchants and Westcove fisherfolk saw the need for greater access to either coast, without having to rely on the icy and treacherous seas far to the north. So, they built a road from east to west, through the heart of the Spiritwood, and paid the hunters to see them safely through it.”

  The red-haired man pulled the leg from a charred pigeon. “Not a duty that ever appealed to me, but many hunters kept their families fed for a long time on the back of it.”

  “But no more, I take it,” said Cole. “Why? What happened?”

  “The emperor in all his wisdom looked to the north and decided he wanted it, is what happened,” said Bjorn, shaking his head. “When the north fell, the Legion arrived shortly after. They erected their watchtowers at either side and another in the Spiritwood itself, standing guard over the only bridge across the Ymbral. A bridge built by hunters’ hands, no less.”

  “I see,” said Cole, retrieving his tankard from the makeshift map and taking a long draught of ale. He blanched at the bitter taste. “So, now the Legion controls the traffic through the wood.”

  “Aye,” Bjorn replied, grumpily biting off another mouthful of bread. “Through those blasted towers of theirs. Dawn in the east, Moon in the west and Dusk, right in the heart of that cursed forest.”

  “It sounds like it would have been easier to cut it down.”

  “It would have been, if they had had a hundred years to do it in. The Spiritwood is bigger than you can imagine, boy, and it has a way about it that turns axes aside. When the Watch was first settled, our forebears preferred to look to the west for the timber, rather than the forest practically on their doorstep.”

  “Anyway,” Raven interjected, “to answer your original question, Cole. With the emperor once more making war, this time in the south, most of the Legion has gone with him. Only a handful of soldiers remain at the towers of the Dawn, Moon and Dusk. Barely enough to escort a caravan, while patrols along the rest of the road have ceased altogether.”

  “Did you know the merchants have turned once again to the Watch for assistance?” Bjorn asked, noisily sucking grease from his fingers.

  “No, I hadn’t heard.” Raven frowned. “I haven’t been this way for several months. When did this happen?”

&
nbsp; Bjorn shrugged. “Five weeks ago, maybe six. When a bird arrived with a message asking for safe conduct, Harri insisted on leading the hunt through the Spiritwood to meet the caravan and escort it west. It arrived yesterday without him. Yaegar is nearly mad with worry.”

  “I’m sure he’ll return,” said Raven. “You know what he’s like.”

  “Aye, probably chasing shadows as we speak. He always was a headstrong boy. The rest of the party returned with the caravan, though, and said he vanished a few miles from Moon and didn’t return. Another day, and I think Yaegar will gather the hunters and lead a party into the Spiritwood himself.”

  “Who is this Yaegar?” Cole asked. “You keep mentioning him.”

  Bjorn looked surprised. “I thought most of the north knew of Yaegar,” he said. “The most skilled hunter the Watch has ever seen.”

  “It’s more of a title than a name,” Raven explained. “He is the Lord of the Hunt. I don’t think anyone now remembers what he was called before. Hunter’s Watch has no ruler as such, but everyone respects Yaegar and accepts his counsel.”

  “We’ve always been governed by the strongest.” Bjorn upended his tankard and drained the rest of his ale in a single gulp. He rubbed the foam from his beard with the back of his hand. “When Yaegar speaks, men listen. He’s not interested in trade or the clink of coins, so the elders look after the day to day. For Yaegar, it is always about the hunt. Our ‘sacred duty to watch over the Spiritwood’, as he puts it. But, since the Legion came...” He frowned. “He sits in the langhus and broods. He lacks purpose.”

  The flame-haired man lapsed into thoughtful silence, and Raven turned to Cole. “Harri is Yaegar’s son. A man now and as fiery as his father is. Or was.”

  “The only time they aren’t fighting or arguing is when one of them is off in the wilds. Too similar, and that’s the truth of it.” Bjorn chuckled. “But the mountains will fall into the sea before either will admit it.”

  Cole picked at the food as Bjorn and Raven made small talk, the big man’s laughter occasionally booming across the tavern. He let their voices wash over him. Away from the crowds, Cole found he was able to relax – and after more than a week in the wilds simply sitting at a table, indoors, and eating hot food felt like a luxury. The ale was watery, but even so he began to feel pleasantly light-headed. Smiling amiably, he looked around the room at the other patrons, but none were paying them any attention.

  “So, Cole, Raven tells me that you’re looking for someone to take you into the mountains,” Bjorn said, addressing him.

  Cole nodded. “Do you know of anyone who might be willing? I have some coin. Not much, but hopefully enough.”

  “Most of the hunters here will know the right paths to take,” said Bjorn, stroking his beard. “But as to who would be willing, it’s not for me to say. You must ask them yourself.”

  Cole looked around the near-empty room again. “There doesn’t seem to be a great deal of choice at the moment.”

  “Bah, it’s early yet.” Bjorn waved a hand dismissively. “Those that came in with the caravan are likely still resting up. It will be busier tonight.” He eyed Cole thoughtfully. “Why do you want to make such a journey, anyway?”

  “I made a promise to a friend,” Cole replied. “I cannot say more.”

  Raven was watching him with interest. “You’re wise to be guarded, Cole.” She smiled. “I think you may be learning after all.”

  “Huh? What’s this?” asked Bjorn, puzzled. Cole noticed that he had acquired another tankard from somewhere, and had already quaffed half of the ale within.

  “Let’s just say that the last guide didn’t work out too well,” she explained.

  “Hm? Oh, well. There’s all kinds of bad sorts on the road now since the patrols stopped. I wouldn’t worry lad, there isn’t a hunter in the whole of the Watch I wouldn’t trust with my life, if it came to it.”

  They finished the rest of the food, and Cole felt in good spirits. His stomach was full for the first time in days and it seemed as though an experienced guide would not be hard to find. As they stood up to leave, he attempted to leave a few coins in payment, but Bjorn batted his hand away. “What sort of host would I be if I let my guests pay for their own breakfast?” he grumbled, slamming a fistful of coppers onto the table.

  “Host?” Raven arched an eyebrow.

  “Aye, lass, I insist,” said Bjorn, with a grin. “I can make up a pallet in the forge for young Cole here, and you and I can catch up on old times into the early hours. It’ll be quieter and cheaper than here.”

  “I’ll think about it,” Raven replied, with an odd half-smile. “I did want to come back to your workshop, though. The hidden knife you crafted for my boot broke off again.”

  “Aye, if it’s just the blade it will be easy enough.” He gave Cole a friendly pat on the back, that nearly sent him crashing into the next table. “I’ll head back now and fire up the furnace.”

  “It looks like there’s a bit of time to kill before you can speak to the hunters about passage into the mountains,” said Raven after Bjorn had left. “I’ve got a few things to take care of. Why don’t you have a look around the town? There’s no danger as long as you stay within the walls.”

  “Yes, I think I will.” He shuffled his feet distractedly. “Listen, I just wanted to thank you for... well, for everything really.”

  “You do know we’ll be meeting up later?”

  “I know,” he said, feeling his cheeks grow warm. “I wanted to say it now, just in case.”

  She smiled at him. “I can’t say I wouldn’t have made it here a lot faster without you, but you’re welcome. It wasn’t entirely unpleasant to have company on the road, for a time.”

  They left the tavern together, then with a nod of farewell Raven strode off back towards the teeming marketplace. He stood watching until her black cloak melted into the crowd. For perhaps the first time in his life, Cole had time to spare and had no idea what to do with it. On the Crag, their days were strictly regimented – chores, lessons and training broken up by meals and sleep. In the days since leaving, all his focus had been on the journey east. Standing idly outside the tavern with no clear purpose was a strange, unfamiliar sensation.

  He thought about visiting the marketplace, but the idea of fighting his way through the bustle again held little appeal. Instead, he turned in the opposite direction, and sauntered towards the town’s outskirts.

  It was a pleasant walk. In stark contrast to Westcove, which lurked beneath an ever-present veneer of grime and sea salt, the streets and houses of Hunter’s Watch were spotless. The town may have fallen on leaner times, but the same civic pride that went into its construction lived on. As well as the carved eaves, many of the houses had window boxes and hanging baskets that overflowed with flowers of every colour. He passed several workshops, each of which was accompanied by an ornate sign. Some were painted wood, some carved and some wrought iron, but each depicted the nature of the craft taking place within. Outside a small bakery, the window of which was filled with breads and pastries of all different shapes and sizes, the wooden sign had been carved into the shape of a knotted loaf, and painted in such a way that it looked as delicious as anything on display. Above a fletcher’s shop, meanwhile, three metal arrows were hung, welded together. From the busy sounds emanating from within, Cole guessed that his skills were in particular demand.

  Eventually, he found himself walking alongside the town’s perimeter. Perhaps it was because he was used to the thick stone of the keep where he had been brought up, but he was surprised that it was not sturdier. Rather than a stone wall, the town was encircled by a palisade of thick, eight-foot high stakes driven into the ground, the tops of which were sharpened to points. It served as a barrier between the town and the outside world, but he didn’t believe it could stand for more than a few minutes against a determined invader.

  From where he stood, he could see a wooden guard tower above one of the roofs. A lone sentry stood at its top, loo
king out across the plain to the east. Cole was gazing up at the tower thoughtfully, when an arrow struck him in the chest.

  “You’re dead!” shrieked a shrill voice.

  Cole looked down and saw two young boys scampering towards him. One was carrying a small bow and wore an expression of gleeful triumph. The other’s face was only partly visible beneath a motley collection of small pelts of various kinds, which had been inexpertly stitched together. Behind them trotted a small girl, no more than four years old.

  “I shot you,” the first boy yelled excitedly. “Right through the heart! You have to lie down now, ‘cos you’re all deaded.”

  Cole clutched his chest, let out a strangled cry, and pitched backwards with as much grace as he could muster. The children cheered.

  When it seemed that his audience was satisfied with his impromptu performance, Cole sat up. He saw the arrow lying nearby, and picked it up. It was just a short shaft with a few feathers glued to one end. A toy. “That was a good shot,” he said, offering it back to the boy with the bow.

  “Thanks,” said the child. “My da’s been teaching me.”

  “So, what game are you playing?”

  “The Hunter and the Beast. I’m the hunter.”

  Cole grinned. “And let me guess,” he pointed at the girl, who was staring at him with eyes and mouth wide open. “You’re the beast.”

  “No,” said the young archer, rolling his eyes at the stupidity of grown ups. “That’s just my sister. He’s the beast.”

  The other boy waved shyly from beneath his cloak of furs.

  “Sounds like a fun game,” said Cole. “Can I play?”

  “No, because you’re dead.” The children fell silent and stared at the ground for a few moments, as if searching for a way past such an impasse. Evidently, none was to be found. “Bye then,” the boy said cheerfully. The three of them trotted back the way they had come and disappeared behind one of the nearby houses.