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

by Alan Ratcliffe

  Still, Rose complained bitterly about the need to return to their quarters all the way back. Milly was strangely quiet, however. Once or twice, Marie glanced at the elder girl, but she seemed happy enough. Quiet, thoughtful, but not unhappy. Marie shrugged and put it down to the caprices of youth.

  * * *

  The musky odour of horses reached Adelmar’s nostrils first as he approached the stables. The wooden construction was a fair size, built to hold enough animals to mount an entire cavalry regiment. It was nearly full now, he saw, when he eased open the door. A hundred stalls lined the long room, inside which a century of horses whickered and shifted restlessly. A dozen grooms, at least, tended to the animals, brushing their coats and the tangles from their manes and tails, and making sure that each was fed and watered.

  Adelmar glowered at them as he marched down the long corridor between the rows of stalls. When the grooms saw their commander striding into the stable, they redoubled their work, labouring even harder over their charges. It had been several days since he had needed to order a stableboy dragged to the post outside the barracks next-door and flogged, but that had been enough of an example to the others and their diligence had not faltered since.

  At the end of the building was another door, which led to a storeroom in which was kept oats for the horses, brass and leather polish for the tack, wheelbarrows, forks, shovels and everything else required for their care. A soldier wearing chainmail and white tabard with the imperial sigil stood on duty in front of the door. Adelmar stopped in front of the guard, who stood to attention at his approach. “He is in here?”

  “Yes sir.” The guard saluted, then grimaced. “Lieutenant Slake is with him.”

  Adelmar’s lip curled with distaste. The presence of the second-in-command of his father’s household guard did not please him. But, there were certain circumstances that required his particular... talents. He nodded wearily, and pushed open the storeroom door.

  He had spent most of his life around horses, and the familiar scent of them was not one that he found unpleasant. But the same could not be said for the stink that filled the storeroom. Adelmar’s nose wrinkled as he went inside and closed the stable door behind him. The odour of blood and other human secretions was what assailed his nose first, but there was an undercurrent of something worse. The stench of fear.

  He strode between shelves filled with boxes and supplies, until he found them. One man stood with his back to him. If Adelmar had not already known him for a soldier, there would be no clue here to give away that fact. The man was wearing a leather apron over plain, roughspun woollens. His balding hair was cut short, revealing his scalp. While not tall, long limbs and a reed-thin frame often made him appear larger than he was. He was fiddling with a variety of objects laid out on a table in front of him, which Adelmar could not make out fully in the dim light of the storeroom.

  Slake turned his head as Adelmar approached. “Ah, Commander, it is good that you have arrived. I trust you do not mind that I, mhm, commenced without you.”

  Adelmar grunted. He had always found mildly irritating the lieutenant’s habit of punctuating his sentences with small, murmured chuckles when no-one but he was aware of any humour in his words.

  “I am afraid I do not have much to report as yet,” Slake went on. “But I am, mhm, confident of improved results once the subject awakens.”

  Adelmar looked towards the room’s other occupant, and felt something close to pity. A naked man sat upon a wooden chair, his wrists and ankles bound to the frame with thick leather straps. His skin, darker in complexion than would normally be found within the Empire, was covered by a network of bloody scratches, abrasions and burns. On the seat of the chair and the floor around him was blood, both dried and fresh, while several toes and fingers were discoloured and angled unnaturally. The man’s head slumped forward, his eyes closed. Unconscious. Probably for the best, Adelmar thought.

  “This has to be done here, did it?” he asked gruffly. “The palace dungeons would seem more fitting for such business.”

  “Fear not, Highness. The Pit will claim this one soon enough. He was caught skulking around just behind these stables. It seemed, mhm, prudent to discover what we can here before he is spotted being taken elsewhere.”

  “You are sure he is a spy?”

  The bald inquisitor spread his hands apologetically. “He claims to be a sailor belonging to one of the Tenebrian trading vessels. But he is far from the port, is he not?”

  “Has he explained why he was found behind my barracks?”

  “As he tells it, he became lost looking for a, mhm, house of the night.”

  Adelmar looked down at the unconscious figure. It seemed hard to believe that anyone could withstand such pain without confessing all they knew. “Perhaps he is telling the truth.”

  A greasy smile slid across the inquisitor’s face. “If he is, then he’s the unluckiest man in Ehrenburg, Highness. However, I believe applying a little more pressure is likely to reveal his true purpose.”

  Adelmar’s jaw tightened. “Proceed.”

  With a nod, Slake returned to his bench and picked up a small bucket. He flung the contents in the face of the naked man, and the smell of vinegar stung Adelmar’s eyes. The man awakened instantly with a screech, spitting out the liquid that had entered his mouth, writhing in pain where it had touched his wounds.

  “Now, where did we leave off?” The inquisitor mused, his voice soft. “Ah yes. Perhaps you could remind me why our patrol found you outside our barracks?”

  “Felhadhi... please, master. I tell you already.” The man’s voice was a ragged sob. “I leave ship. I get lost. Your men find me, bring me here. That is all, I swear.”

  “If it was a whore you wanted, why leave the harbour? There are plenty there to choose from.”

  “I... I do not know, master. Felhadhi, let me return to ship. I go, never return.”

  As fast as a striking snake, the inquisitor was behind him. He grabbed a handful of hair and yanked the man’s head back, a skinning blade held against his throat. The man cried out in fear.

  “There’s no ship for you now, we both know that full well,” Slake hissed. “All that remains is for you to decide whether this ends quick or slow... and believe me, mhm, I can keep this up for as long as it pleases me.” The man nodded to show understanding, pricking the skin of his throat on the point of the knife. He moaned. “Good,” the inquisitor continued. “Now that we know where we all stand, tell me true. Which of the courts are you working for, hm? The Court of Death? Perhaps. The Court of Night? More likely. But I wish to hear it from your own lips. If your answer pleases me, I can be merciful.”

  “Master, please, I... I am but a simple sailor. I know nothing of the courts. If I did, I would tell. But I know nothing.”

  What followed went on for some time. After grimly watching the inquisitor at work for a few moments, Adelmar left the storeroom and returned to the stables, closing his ears to the shrieks. The guard was still at his post, and looked as uncomfortable as he with what was taking place behind the wooden door.

  Eventually, all fell quiet once again, and Adelmar went back to the storeroom. He tried to avoid glancing at the wretched form on the chair as he approached the inquisitor. “Is he dead?” he asked.

  Slake was panting heavily, and with the back of one hand wiped a sheen of sweat from his brow. “No, Highness. Merely fainted. Fear not, this will only end at a time of my, mhm, choosing.”

  “Has he given you anything useful?”

  “Some.” Slake smiled. “He has admitted that he is on a mission from one of the five courts, but will not say which one.” He shrugged. “It matters not. They are all enemies of the Empire and will be crushed, one by one. I ask mainly from curiosity. He has also not yet told me about his task. I suspect it is merely reconnaissance, spying on our strength to report back to his masters, but it is worth finding out for certain. Sabotage is always a possibility, even assassination. I will continue to press. He ha
s been surprisingly... resistant so far.”

  “Get everything you can before he’s taken to The Pit,” Adelmar said firmly. “Find out everything you can about their coastal defences. If there is a weak spot, I would know of it.”

  “As you wish, Highness.” Slake bowed obsequiously, and yet Adelmar detected an undercurrent of disrespect. He ignored it, keen to leave the inquisitor’s presence as quickly as possible.

  A black cloud had settled over his mood by the time he reached his family’s apartments at the imperial palace. The sight of his brooding expression was enough to send his wife’s handmaids fleeing when he marched into the bedchamber.

  Ellara raised a quizzical eyebrow as Adelmar stormed over to their window, which looked down upon the rooftops of the city, and stood brooding before it, arms crossed. “Is everything all right, husband?” she ventured finally.

  Adelmar continued to scowl down upon the city. “I shall be glad to leave this place,” he growled.

  “Really?” Ellara sighed. “I was just thinking how nice it is to be among normal people again, after having nobody but soldiers to talk to for the last two years.”

  He grunted in response. “What is normal, I ask you? The simpletons that live their entire lives in ignorance of the way the world works? Or the fawning lackeys that pretend to offer advice but tell you nothing you don’t wish to hear? Living among your troops... there is an honesty to it that the city lacks. There is an enemy, and you fight him together, united by a common purpose.” He smiled grimly, recalling his father’s words to him at the palace days before.

  Ellara whispered up behind him, her silk dress swishing as she moved, and wrapped her arms around his chest. “So gloomy today,” she said. “What happened to bring this mood on?”

  Adelmar sighed. His wife, always sweet and supportive, never failed to ease whatever troubled him. “It is nothing. A few problems with preparing our forces for departure, but everything has been resolved.”

  “Good. Because tonight is the ceremony at the Order’s tower that your father wanted you to attend, so we’re to leave tomorrow are we not?”

  He frowned and rubbed his eyes. That was tonight? He had spent several days either at the barracks or at the large army camp beyond the city’s walls, grabbing an hour or two of sleep whenever and wherever he was able. He’d lost track of the time, somehow. “I had best get ready then, I suppose.”

  Ellara laughed. “You sound like a man on the way to his execution, dear.”

  “That is how it feels.” He turned and embraced his wife. Her easy manner had done much to relieve his disquiet about what he had seen in the stables. “Where are the girls?”

  “In their room,” Ellara replied. “Marie is helping them to pack their belongings, then she’ll put them to bed and stay with them until we return. Not that I expect they’ll be asleep, they were still bouncing around after spending the day shopping, the last time I checked on them.”

  He let out a sharp bark of laughter. “Then she has her work cut out.” In truth, he liked the governess Ellara had found for the girls. She had a hard edge that he believed would help instil some discipline in his daughters. He let go of his wife and went to leave the room, when she called him back.

  “Where do you think you’re going, dearest?”

  He looked at her as if she had lost her mind. “The tower,” he spluttered. “The ceremony.”

  Ellara shook her head and smiled. “Not wearing that old armour,” she chided. “Not this time. I’ve laid you out something much more appropriate for the occasion.”

  Adelmar’s eyes fell upon the bed, where the stylish, formal court clothes he had ignored previously had made an unwelcome reappearance. He groaned. If he had sounded like a man going to his execution before, he now felt like one attending his own funeral.

  It was worse than that, he decided soon after, when he and Ellara stepped from their carriage in the richly decorated plaza that surrounded the Spire. A dead man, after all, was past the point of discomfort, whereas Adelmar itched and chafed seemingly all over. The shirt was buttoned too high against his throat, the laces of the deep red doublet bound him too tightly, and the padded breeches and hose were too thin, causing him to shiver in the winter wind. The cape he wore offered no protection either, covering as it did just one shoulder and ending a clear hand’s width above his rump. The worst, though, was the shoes. They squeezed his feet, while the points ended some six inches after his toes. The entire outfit was ridiculous, in his opinion, and he found little comfort in seeing the other nobles making their way to the tower dressed in similar fashion.

  He glanced at Ellara. She at least was in her element. She had always adored the court functions that he shunned, and having at last got him into an ensemble that met with her approval she seemed determined to milk the occasion.

  After they had left their carriage, not another couple entered her eyesight without being greeted warmly. They didn’t so much cross the plaza as orbit it, drawing closer to the tower only to veer away again as somebody else caught her eye. Adelmar smiled stiffly as Ellara gossiped endlessly with everyone, learning in a few minutes everything about their current situation, the state of their family and a dozen other tidbits of useless information he cared for not in the least. If she noticed his reticence, then she did not show it, nor cut short her conversations with the Order’s other guests.

  He found himself glancing up at the enormous construction they were present to celebrate. The scale of it boggled the mind. Sitting atop a flight of wide stone steps that had been scrubbed clean for the occasion, the Spire stretched two hundred feet above even the imperial palace at its pinnacle. Having never before been inside its walls, he couldn’t say how many floors were inside; thirty at least, he guessed, if not more. Being so tall, there wasn’t a point in the city from which it was not visible. It towered over all else, a waypoint towards Ehrenburg for all travellers, whether they were coming by land or sea.

  Clusters of chattering dignitaries and noble guests stood in knots around the plaza before the steps, while the great wooden double doors of the tower itself remained closed. Large braziers were arrayed around the square, burning brightly. They were the sole acknowledgement of the season, and the only respite from the icy wind that blew across the square.

  Adelmar glowered at the fires. “What’s this, the Archon sees fit to make his betters wait on his doorstep?” he muttered bitterly. “No doubt while he warms his feet before his hearth within.”

  “Hush dear,” chided Ellara, during one of the rare moments she was paying attention to her husband beside her. “I’m sure there’s a reason for it.”

  Adelmar relented, shivering. A pale-robed novice appeared at his elbow, proffering crystal glasses of golden wine. This was gratefully received by Ellara, who promptly disappeared into the throng to speak to somebody else who had caught her eye.

  Now alone, Adelmar gazed disapprovingly around the assembled figures. The thought of making idle small talk with people he mostly held in contempt did not appeal to him greatly. Then he spotted a face in the crowd, one he did wish to have words with. The maudlin, hangdog features of Lord Aubrey, Baron of Bard’s Lea were instantly recognisable. The baron was deep in conversation with a minor lordling Adelmar was not familiar with, who bowed an apology and made himself scarce as he approached them.

  “Enjoying the party, Sheridan?” Adelmar asked, with forced geniality.

  Lord Aubrey looked alarmed at being singled out for attention, and then smiled wanly. “Always happy to support the Order, Highness. I trust you are well?”

  “Never better.” He regarded the baron for a few moments, enjoying his discomfort. “Looking forward to departing on the morrow.”

  “Ah, yes, of course. The war.” The baron’s tone was detached. He might almost have been talking about something as mundane as his supper rather than the conflict brewing to the south. “I imagine readying the Legion has taken up much of your time this past week.”

  “Indeed,
indeed. I’ve been meaning to speak to you about that, in fact.” A panicky look came into the baron’s eyes. “I was at the mustering grounds outside the city this very morning, as it happens, to watch the troops being put through their paces,” Adelmar continued, placing a companionable hand on Lord Aubrey’s shoulder. “And I have to say that the levies from Bard’s Lea really stood out.”

  “You flatter me, Highness, I-”

  “An utter bloody shambles,” Adelmar interrupted. He smiled pleasantly, but the pressure from his hand increased until the baron winced. “Never in my life have I seen such an inept display. I’m worried that if I send them into battle they’ll do more damage to my own men than the enemy.”

  Beads of sweat began to appear on the baron’s brow. “I am sorry, Highness. The people of Bard’s Lea are not soldiers. We are but simple farmers, tradespeople. I sent two hundred men, as the Treaty stipulates, but-”

  “But they’re a damned menace,” Adelmar finished. “I understand yours are not a martial people, Sheridan. That’s why the Treaty is most important to those like Bard’s Lea. You require the Legion to protect your lands, do you not? All we ask in return is that in times of war, those we protect help to supplement the Legion’s numbers.”

  “Which we have done, Highness.” There was a wheedling tone to the baron’s voice. “You saw for yourself that we sent as many men as we are required to do.”

  “Yet I am forced to wonder whether you have sent the best men available, or whether there are now markedly fewer cripples and idiots on the streets of Bard’s Lea.” Adelmar released the baron’s shoulder. “We will have to whip them into shape as we march, and like all the levies they will serve under Legion commanders. But in their case I wonder if they don’t need an added incentive to fight.”

  “Highness? I am not sure I follow your meaning.”

  “I find that a reminder of why they are fighting can make up for a shortfall in training. A constant reminder among their own ranks.” Adelmar smiled. “You have a son, do you not?”