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

by Alan Ratcliffe

  Understanding dawned on the baron’s face and he began to tremble. “Domenic? But he is just a boy.”

  “Really? I understood he recently saw his fourteenth summer. I had bloodied my blade by the time I was ten.”

  “We can’t all be as naturally gifted in the arts of war as you, Highness,” the baron simpered. “Domenic has some training, yes, but he is not ready to take part in a campaign.”

  “Nevertheless, the boy will be outside the city gates by dawn tomorrow, or you will be in breach of the Treaty and we will have no choice but to withdraw Legion support from your lands.” He smiled. “On an unrelated note, I understand the Duke of Brackenwood recently petitioned my father on some minor matter. Something to do with an ancestor who married into your family, and a claim dispute of some kind. He seemed quite worked up about it, poor chap. Good evening my lord.”

  The baron smiled nervously and made his way further into the crowd, his face ashen. Adelmar watched him go with a light heart. The exchange had left him in a better mood than he had been in for days.

  That ended abruptly, however, when a familiar voice cried out behind him. “Is that my brother I see, or has a peacock escaped from the palace gardens?”

  Adelmar turned and saw Jarrod standing there, his face lit up by a silly, inebriated grin. “Hello Jarrod.”

  His younger brother tittered foolishly. “Poor Addled, you are a sight. I’ve seen peeled crabs that look happier to be stripped of their armour. No wonder you look like a man on the way to his execution.”

  “A fine jest, brother.” Adelmar smiled nastily. “Unfortunately my wife beat you to it.”

  Jarrod’s mouth twisted with disgust. “Ugh, don’t tell me I’m becoming predictable. I shall have to get out my whetstone later to sharpen my wit.” He hiccupped. “I blame the wine.”

  “Is that so? I would have thought you were quite accustomed by now to acting the drunken buffoon.”

  “No act, I assure you,” the young prince slurred. “By the way, how are my nieces? It was quite a surprise to see them in the artisans’ quarter earlier today.”

  Adelmar frowned. He had assumed they had gone to the markets. He would have words later with their governess. The thought of them in one of the rougher districts of the city did not please him. “And what were you doing there?” he asked gruffly. “Disgracing yourself in some ale-sodden gutter tavern, no doubt.”

  Jarrod’s eyes flashed mischievously. “You wound me brother,” he said, affecting a tone of mock-offence.

  “Why weren’t you with your troops at their barracks? You do realise we leave the city at dawn tomorrow. Are they ready?”

  Jarrod stifled a yawn. “I haven’t the least notion. I’ve left all of that to Trayner. It bores me stiff, I’m afraid. I’m sure it’s all in hand.”

  “I won’t stand for mockery, Jarrod.” Adelmar’s genial veneer vanished. He loomed threateningly over his brother. “We’re going to war. I won’t have you turning this campaign into a circus with your antics.”

  His brother sipped delicately from his glass, unimpressed. “Yes, yes, it’s all very serious, I’m sure. Don’t worry, when the arrows start to fly I’ll be on my best behaviour. I’m very attached to my life and don’t intend to throw it away just yet.”

  Adelmar was at a loss as to why his brother had even been put forward for the campaign. His father had muttered something about seasoning and toughening him up, but even he had not sounded entirely convinced. He smiled grimly. Well, let the wastrel play at war for a little while, he would discover the hard realities of military life soon enough. He was about to say more, when the sound of chanting carried across the square.

  All heads turned towards the tower, as the double doors were pulled open and rows of brown-robed Brothers emerged. Their heads were bent low as they came towards the top of the stair, deep voices blending with one another until the words themselves became a jumble.

  Between them strode the Archon, his expression solemn but his green eyes dancing in jubilation. He had chosen ceremonial robes of the most brilliant white for the occasion, dazzling the onlookers as the golden light of the sunset struck him. Even Adelmar was forced to admit, backed as he was by the tallest man-made structure in the realm, the cleric was an impressive sight.

  The Archon stood watching them for a few moments, until the Brothers fanned out behind him ceased their chant, and silence fell over the square. It was then that he began his address, his strong voice carrying to every corner of the plaza.

  “Esteemed guests,” he began. “It honours me to look around and see so many friends of our Order. Those who, I know, have supported our efforts to spread the word of Enlightenment in their lands... indeed some who have done so themselves. It gladdens my heart to know that anyone of the faith could walk from The Vigil to Westcove and always find a welcoming hearth. It tells me that our cause is truly just, that every man, woman and child of the Empire trusts us to show them the way to the light. Their lords and masters are here today to celebrate with us our latest achievement, that will carry us to even greater heights.”

  “With some notable exceptions,” muttered Jarrod under his breath. Adelmar scowled, but knew that his brother was right. While the noble houses of the south, west and east were well-represented, those of the north were strikingly absent.

  “This tower will stand as an eternal monument to Enlightenment,” the Archon continued. “Twenty years ago we began to raise this tower, this Spire, from the earth, driven by a vision. Our words say that man is supreme, that we need not be beholden nor feel inferior to any other race or being. But in order to prove the truth of our words, we needed to create something magnificent. Today, we finish that great work. This Spire will be the centrepiece not only for the Empire, but for all of mankind. Let all who gaze upon it know in their hearts that we have no equal. That there is no need for us to grovel in the dirt and beg for blessings. That we stand upon the earth not as base creatures... but as gods.”

  Adelmar felt his face redden, stung by the blasphemy. He glanced around as a ripple of applause broke out across the square. He hoped to see others like him, those that resented the Archon’s speech, but there were none. Only expectant faces, eager for more.

  Jarrod was looking at him strangely. “It surprises you, brother, does it not? You thought that perhaps father is alone in his convictions. But even those that don’t believe will not object. Their fangs were pulled a long time ago and they will do anything now not to be eaten.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Did you know that in centuries past, packs of wolves roamed the land? They quite terrorised our ancestors, so the history books say. Well, there are no wolves in the Empire any more, dear brother. Save one. And he has a voracious appetite.”

  Adelmar was about to turn his back on the tower, on the Archon and his cohorts, and storm away in disgust, when there was a commotion the far end of the plaza. His father arrived to great fanfare, escorted through the crowd by half a dozen of his household guard, their armour shining. They barged a path through the assembly, heading towards the steps. As he passed close by, the emperor’s eyes found Adelmar’s and the command they conveyed was clear. Stay.

  Maximilien the Great looked as impressive as his name. Normally preferring a plainer mode of dress, not that dissimilar to his eldest son in that regard, the emperor had chosen a doublet of gold studded with fine jewels that glittered as he slowly climbed the steps towards his smiling counsellor. Atop his head, the golden crown he had worn for nearly three decades sat proudly, catching the last rays of the setting sun. Yet, for all his grandeur, as he reached the top of the steps to stand beside the Archon, he appeared gaudy in comparison.

  Adelmar stood silently fuming as his father addressed the gathered crowd. Platitudes about supporting the march towards a brighter future, of keeping the Empire strong through unity poured from his mouth. The Archon nodded and smiled smugly throughout. A wolf, Jarrod had called him, and Adelmar saw it now. There was a predato
ry look in his eyes as he stood watching his father, subtleties of posture that told an observant eye that the Archon did not see himself as subservient to the speaker; quite the contrary, in fact.

  As his father drew to a close, Adelmar noting that the applause that greeted his speech was less than had followed the Archon’s address, it seemed that the ceremony was not yet quite over.

  With a nauseous feeling in the pit of his stomach, Adelmar watched, open-mouthed, as two robed Brothers emerged from the tower behind, dragging a young bull calf. Even at this distance Adelmar could see the whites around its eyes as it desperately sought an escape, perhaps sensing what was to follow. Its mournful lowing carried out over the watching crowd.

  “The man has lost his mind,” Adelmar muttered disbelievingly. “I’d thought such barbaric practices long dead.”

  “I can tell you’ve not been to any of the Order’s recent services.” Jarrod smiled, but keeping his attention on the unfolding scene. “It seems that while in most matters they believe in looking to the future, in others they’re more than happy to revive certain activities enjoyed by our ancestors.”

  “But sacrifice?” Adelmar looked on in horror as the wretched beast was secured at the top of the steps. “But for whom? The Order worships no deity.”

  “So they say,” Jarrod replied slyly. “Curious, is it not?”

  “How does father stand for it?”

  “Oh, he’s been known to wield the knife himself at times while attending the cathedral services. Special occasions mostly.” Jarrod met his brother’s eye. “But I’m not sure the choice of animal this evening was entirely coincidental, do you?”

  Above them, the Archon had drawn a long ceremonial dagger from his robes. The Brothers around him resumed their chanting, as he drew it across the calf’s throat. Adelmar’s stomach rolled as red liquid cascaded down the steps. The creature’s cries of terror ceased, and moments later there was a thud as its legs gave way beneath it. Further applause followed the act, but if anything else took place before the tower, Adelmar was not there to witness it. By the time the animal fell, he was already marching from the square, pulling his wife behind him.

  Adelmar was still brooding a short time later, when they sat once more in their carriage, which carried them back across the city towards the palace. In a few short hours he would be leaving the city at the head of an army, and he knew it would be a long time before he gazed upon it again. But he swore that when he returned triumphant, there would be a reckoning.

  “Adelmar, whatever is the matter,” Ellara asked. “You look as if you’re a thousand miles away.”

  Not yet, but soon. “I was just thinking,” he said aloud, “about your wardrobe.”

  “My wardrobe?” Ellara looked baffled.

  A strange smile spread over Adelmar’s face. “Yes,” he replied. “I think it would look so much better with a wolfskin cloak.”

  CHAPTER 23

  The wind was a savage beast, prowling the mountaintop and howling in their ears. It found every gap and chink in their clothing, pricking every inch of exposed skin with talons of ice. Not to be outdone, the snows that had begun hours before as a mere flurry now whipped into a full blizzard, leaving them unable to see more than a few yards ahead through the swirling flakes.

  Yet, in spite of the frigid conditions, Cole couldn’t help but grin. Before the weather had closed in, he had caught a sight of the dark, carved stone at the mountain’s peak. That brief glimpse told him he had made it at last.

  Frosthold.

  He trudged on through the blizzard, following the faint outline of Raven’s back, unable to tell how much further they had to go. The snow lay knee-deep here, near the mountain’s peak, and each stride sapped his waning energy even further. The going was harder even than through the sucking mud of the Ice Fens. The cold wormed its way into his bones, draining his strength. He could do little more than clutch his cloak tightly around his body.

  Cole’s foot caught against the top of a step and he stumbled. He landed on his hands and knees, the fallen snow chilling his fingers even through the thick gloves he wore. There was a torrent of angry expletives from the pouch at his hip as he hauled himself back upright. It wasn’t the first time one of the steps had tripped him, but he hoped that it was the last. Surely there were not many more remaining.

  He was grateful for their presence, though. He had been pleasantly surprised when Raven had told him about the existence of the stair, when he asked why they appeared to be skirting around the very mountain they were aiming to climb.

  “It will be easier to make the ascent if we approach from the north,” Raven had told him. “There is a path that is used by the Brothers to reach Whitecliff.”

  “A path? Who built it?”

  “One of the first lords of Frosthold, I presume, but I could not tell you which one,” she replied. “It is said to be one of the oldest strongholds of the north, already ancient by the time the hunters were laying the first foundations of Hunter’s Watch. When the Empire granted it to the Order, the path and stair were already long laid, and provided a convenient way for them to travel to Whitecliff for supplies.”

  “There’s a stair as well?” Cole squinted up at the gigantic face of rock that towered above them. “How do you know all this?”

  “I went there, long ago.” Raven did not stop to wait for him and, after staring up at the mountain for a few moments, Cole had to run to catch up with her. “I have visited many of the Order’s bastions during my search of the land, and Frosthold was one,” she continued. “The Brothers were not overly welcoming, but I was able to learn that the one I sought was not there. In the foothills, there is a path, but once we reach the mountain proper, it gives way to large steps carved into the rock. To reach the top, all you must do is follow it.”

  “You make it sound so simple.”

  Raven laughed ruefully. “There are five thousand steps, I believe, or near to it, so the going is not easy. However, it is a lot less arduous than if the steps were not there.” A few small flakes of snow were beginning to drift through the air as they hiked through the foothills. Some settled on her dark hair, and she frowned. “The weather will prove our greatest challenge, I fear. I would not have chosen to go up into the Dragon’s Back this late in the year, but we just have to make the best of it. We don’t have the luxury of being able to wait for spring.”

  Raven’s words had proven prophetic. The path had not been difficult to find; though it had apparently been some years since she had been there last, Raven hiked confidently through the rolling foothills, familiar with the terrain. But it still took most of the day to reach. By the time they found the track that led up onto the mountainside, the light was beginning to fade. Raven had spent a few moments deep in thought, before deciding that they would continue.

  “Is that wise?” Cole had asked. “What if we stumble in the dark and fall all the way back down on our heads?”

  Raven chewed her lip. It was obvious she was not entirely convinced herself. “That is a risk, but if we make camp now there’s a chance the mountain will be impassable come morning.”

  Cole looked up at the leaden sky above, from which snowflakes continued to fall. “But what if the blizzard comes when we’re still halfway?”

  “We had better pray that we’re nearer to the top than the bottom if that happens.” Raven adjusted the pack on her shoulders and began to trudge along the path.

  Cole stood watching her for a moment, then felt a movement at his hip. The boggit’s hairy head emerged yawning from the pouch and peered belligerently about them. “Good nap?” Cole asked.

  Grume ignored the question. “We stoppin’ for some grub or wot?”

  Cole felt his own stomach rumbling, but shook his head sadly. “Not yet, Raven wants to keep going before the storm closes in.”

  “Pfeh.” Grume spat his disapproval. “We found the mountain then, did we? Where’s it to?”

  “Are you blind?” Cole laughed. “We’re stand
ing right in front of it.”

  The boggit’s little head looked up. And then up again. He seemed lost for words. “So,” Cole asked. “What do you think?”

  As Grume pondered the question, a tiny, clawed finger probed a nostril thoughtfully. “It’s big,” he offered, finally.

  Cole nodded and started after Raven’s receding back. “It sure is,” he sighed.

  Trudging on through the blizzard now, Cole believed they had made the right choice, though if they had reached the path an hour later then it could so easily have been the wrong one... fatally so. He and Raven had barely shared a word since reaching the carved steps, each of them concentrating their efforts on the climb and trying to preserve what little warmth remained to them. Grume, too, had retreated back inside his pouch, into which Cole had stuffed a fur hat that one of the Faerloren villagers had offered him as he departed. Of all of them, the little boggit was certainly the cosiest.

  However, as the minutes rolled by with still no end in sight and no respite from the storm, he felt his energy sap. Every footstep was harder than the last, requiring all his effort to keep placing one snow-crusted boot in front of the other. He stared down at his feet, a posture that helped his hood keep the worst of the chill wind from his face. Nevertheless, his skin felt as if somebody was stabbing a hundred needles into his flesh.

  He stumbled again. This time he seemed to float to the ground, landing in a snowdrift as soft and yielding as a cloud. Why isn’t it cold? he wondered, his thoughts coming slowly, as if moving though treacle. It was oddly comfortable, and suddenly exhaustion hit him. I’ll just rest here for a few moments. At least it’s warm. With numb fingers, he pulled off his gloves, feeling as if his skin was burning up. So strange...

  Just as Cole was falling asleep, he became aware of someone calling his name. He slurred at them to leave him alone. He just needed rest, then everything would be fine. Rough hands grabbed him, pulling him upright, but he was too tired to fight them off. He complained, his words muzzy and incoherent, as the gloves were pushed back onto his burning hands. Then he felt himself being dragged on through the snow.