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

by Alan Ratcliffe

  Just before they did so, Cole caught sight of a clump of snow being hurled into the air less than a hundred yards away. “He’ll be here any minute,” he told her.

  With a grunt of effort, Raven pushed a thick wooden bar into place across the double doors. “When he does, he’ll find it a lot harder to get inside than we did.”

  “I suppose it’s too much to hope that another blizzard will come while he’s sat on our doorstep.”

  It was quickly apparent that they did not have the time to wait for that to pass. Less then two minutes after the doors had been shut and barred, they heard a heavy pounding on the other side. Each thump seemed to shake the frame of the doorway. After one particularly fierce blow, Cole saw the wood begin to splinter. “Harder to get in, but not impossible,” he pointed out.

  Raven frowned. “I can’t believe one man could be that strong. I had hoped we might be able to keep him out indefinitely.”

  The pounding continued, and grains of mortar began to fall down from the doorframe. “I don’t think we’ve got long,” Cole said. “What should we do?”

  Just then, the wood parted as a metallic fist came crashing through. When it was drawn back, Cole caught a glimpse of the dark burning eyes and featureless mask that he remembered so vividly. Then the fist crashed through the opening again, sending splinters flying.

  “I think we run,” Raven told him.

  They did so, their feet pounding along the flagstones of the hallway in time to the blows that rained down on the door. When they reached the spiral staircase, Cole heard an ominous splintering sound behind them. “Which way?” he asked desperately.

  Raven took only a moment to ponder. “Up,” she said. “If we go down we’ll be trapped.”

  There’s no escape either if we go up, Cole thought miserably. Not one they could survive anyway, short of growing wings in the next few moments. He glanced back one last time, and saw a massive, hulking shape silhouetted against the open doorway. With a moan, he chased after Raven for what seemed like the tenth time that day. Up and up they ran, taking the steps two at a time.

  They emerged into the elder’s room yet again. Raven slammed the door shut and drew the bolt across. Having seen what the giant had done to the main entranceway, Cole held out little hope that this would be more than a mere annoyance.

  So it proved. They had barely reached the window on the opposite side of the room, when the door flew from its hinges with a mighty crash. The giant, Dantes, heaved into view, breathing heavily. Whether from exertion or rage, Cole was unable to tell.

  With no other choice remaining to them, they raced onto the balcony. Through the glass, Cole watched as the giant strode purposefully towards them. He knew they were cornered; the need for haste had passed. With a whisper of metal on leather, Raven drew her swords from the scabbards at her waist. Cole groped for his own, then with a groan recalled that he had left his weapon in the hallway that morning.

  He felt a rustle at his hip, as Grume poked his head out to see what was happening. Cole didn’t dare take his eyes from the great form approaching them menacingly, but he heard the little boggit shriek something inaudible and disappear back into the pouch as a shadow passed overhead.

  When he reached the window, the giant didn’t bother opening the glazed door. Instead, he swept his metal arm in front of him, shattering the glass into thousands of jagged shards. Cole and Raven backed away as the giant’s shadow fell over them. The metal arm drew back to strike again, and Cole could feel Raven tense beside him. She didn’t intend to go down without a fight, but without a weapon of his own he didn’t see how he could help.

  He was just about to murmur an apology, when there was an ear-splitting cry. Sharp pain exploded across Cole’s shoulders, then suddenly he was rising through the air, staring down at the giant’s upturned face. Through the eyeslits in his mask, his eyes burned with silent fury. Then rock and snow flew past below Cole’s feet. He glanced up, and saw the large claws holding him and heard the flap of giant, powerful wings beating above his head.

  Cole began to laugh. It came bubbling up from deep within him. He couldn’t help it. To come so close to death, and to be saved from it in this manner... “You were right after all, Grume,” Cole bellowed, above the sound of the wind rushing past. At least I kept my boots, he thought.

  CHAPTER 24

  With a screech of metal, the heavy portcullis was slowly raised up inside the great stone gatehouse. Moments later, the sound of marching feet echoed along the passage.

  Rows of armoured soldiers emerged from the gatehouse, their boots pounding a regular rhythm on the flagstones of the road. A knight on horseback led the way, cutting an impressive figure. The steel plate he wore was polished to a mirror-like shine. A long, crimson cloak hung from his back and draped over the haunches of the white charger he sat atop. His face was hidden beneath a helmet and visor, topped by a feathered plume the same shade as his cloak.

  Behind him came a column of soldiers in chainmail and white tabards adorned with the imperial sigil. They marched five abreast; swordsmen in front, pikemen behind and then crossbowmen and archers occupying the last four rows. A full half-century moving perfectly in step.

  After the last bowmen had passed through the gatehouse arch, next to emerge was an ox, pulling a strange-looking cart behind. A cage of thick metal bars stood upon the wooden base. Inside it, two men, one older and one barely yet come of age, sat sombrely, their eyes downcast.

  Once the procession had passed through the archway, the portcullis was lowered back into place with a loud clang. Talking was forbidden among the troops as they marched, so the only sounds that accompanied their progress were those of marching feet, the regular clip-clop of the knight’s horse and the steady, trundling grind of the cartwheels.

  Sitting atop his mount, Lieutenant Sturben silently fumed. He hadn’t seen the point of this trek across the Shadowlands, and had made his feelings known. “Just question them here and execute them when we have learned all they know,” he’d said. “Are the gallows in Ehrenburg so much finer than our own?”

  General Vitrian’s face had darkened at the questioning of his orders. “Slake wants them, and that’s that,” he’d replied brusquely. “Be ready to leave at first light or they won’t be the only ones awaiting the noose.”

  During this exchange, the prefect had stood nervously to one side, absently stroking the greenstone ring he wore on one pudgy finger. Sturben was thankful that the soldiers of the Imperial Legion were not required to wear the Order’s trappings. It was their sworn duty to follow the emperor’s orders, not concern themselves with religious matters.

  That was the end of the discussion. Rather than further risk the general’s ire, Sturben had saluted and then left to prepare his men and the prisoners for departure, against his better judgement.

  More than two hundred miles separated them from the capital city, and half that would be spent marching through the misty wasteland that lay beyond the walls of Bloodstone. At least the road was paved, he reflected. Having to trek along the kind of dirt track that typified most routes within the Empire, save the Spine, the main road that connected the north to the south, would be ponderous at best.

  Through the slits in his visor, he regarded the land around them. At least the weather was on their side; the fog that often choked the rocky passes and bleak, featureless plains had dispersed for the time being. Sparse clumps of dark, waxy leafed vegetation were dotted around among the craggy rock mounds that were characteristic of the Shadowlands. It wouldn’t last, he knew. Soon enough the mounds would give way to black, steaming hot springs. There, the stink of brimstone would fill the air and with it would come the mists... assuming they had not already closed in upon them by then.

  When that happened, they would be even more grateful for the road. Before the stones of it were laid, it was not unusual for entire platoons to become turned around in the fog and disappear into the heart of the Shadowlands, never to be seen again. Patrolling the lan
ds around the great Legion fortress in such conditions was not a popular duty, and one he had performed often enough in the past. The men that returned, ashen-faced, to the sanctuary of the gatehouse sometimes spoke of spectres in the mist; dark shapes, half-glimpsed, as quick to disappear as they had arrived. Some described strange noises, the hoots and howls of unnatural beasts.

  He always poured scorn on such claims, boxing the ears of any man that propagated the rumours. But there were times, when the mist closed in thickly around him until he could barely even see his own hands, that he wondered if there might be some truth to them.

  Sturben shook his head to displace such foolish notions. If there was anything to fear in the mists it was they, the emperor’s elite. Let any bandits or wild beasts that crossed their path know what it was to face Legion steel.

  So it was that they proceeded along the road. That first day of their journey passed almost without incident. Less than an hour after setting off, the hulking curtain walls of Bloodstone faded from sight behind them, and the road began its gentle descent through a pass of hard, dark rock towards the plains of the Shadowlands. The entire day went past without encountering another living being. This was by no means unusual; Bloodstone was not a trading port and only very rarely did you encounter civilian traffic approaching the fortress by land.

  Despite this, by the early afternoon, when they were still making their way between two sheer rock walls, a vague, creeping feeling of unease began to creep across Lieutenant Sturben. At the same moment, a handful of loose stones clattered down the side of the pass. His eyes flew to the top of the ridge above, but there was no sign of what might have dislodged them. Perhaps it was the wind, he thought, unsure if he believed it. When the column resumed the march, he felt the weight of unseen eyes on his back.

  Nevertheless, that small incident aside, the first day of their long march to the capital had gone about as well as could have been expected. Even the fog that plagued those unforgiving lands held off until nightfall. But by the time they made camp, tendrils of mist were beginning to gather around their ankles.

  Sturben secured his mount, ordered a young private to make sure it was properly fed and watered and then went to check on the prisoners. The cart had been pulled up to the edge of the camp, and he was pleased to see four men standing guard around it. His adjutant, a grizzled old veteran by the name of Sergeant Grimes, was giving them orders when he approached.

  “Anything to report?” Sturben asked the older man.

  “Nossir,” Grimes replied curtly. “Everything as it should be.”

  “Good, carry on.” Sturben tarried a few moments longer and watched as another private tossed two bowls of what looked like gruel through the bars.

  The younger one, the monk, took a bowl and scooped the contents to his mouth with his fingers without relish. The older one did not even look up as the food landed at his feet, globules of it splashing the cuffs of his trousers. The man had barely spoken a word to anyone since he had lunged at Sturben that day on the dock, as his ship burned before his eyes. Sturben had struck him, knocking him to the ground, insensible, and since then he had meekly accepted whatever treatment was meted out. Sturben wondered if the blow from his gauntlet had knocked the wits from the man’s head. Let Slake worry about that, he thought. He knew of the emperor’s interrogator only by reputation, but did not envy the reception the prisoners would receive at his hands.

  Neither one so much as glanced in his direction, and without a word Sturben turned and made his way through the camp to his tent. The orange glow of cookfires were visible through the gathering mist, and as he passed them he heard the muttered voices of his men. Some were preparing meals, others had grouped together around flat rocks, and he saw cards and money changing hands. Some had even fallen asleep already, too tired even to eat before laying down.

  When he reached his tent, Sturben gratefully removed his armour. He did so himself, his hands moving to the various straps and buckles beneath the steel plate with practised ease. Squires were not forbidden in the Legion, but they were normally reserved for those officers of noble birth. Sturben, the son of a Blackridge cobbler, did not number among their ranks.

  Not that he minded. Bloody toffs, he thought dismissively. He’d done well to rise as high as he had, he knew. A lieutenant in the Imperial Legion was not a bad place to end up for a skinny lad, whose youth had been spent running barefooted through the muddy streets of his home town with a gang of street urchins and wastrels. His father had put a stop to that the day a guardsman had brought him to his shop, held fast by the ear, telling a tale about a stolen collection plate. That night he had been whipped so hard that he thought the tears would never stop flowing. In the morning he was bundled off to the Legion outpost with nothing but the clothes on his back.

  He did right by me, Sturben reflected. It had taken a long time for him to see that, through the bitterness and resentment. His father had known that the path he was on would have seen him swinging at the end of a rope one day, and had done what he could to ensure he avoided such an ignominious fate. In the Legion, Sturben had been taught discipline, had it both drummed and beaten into him, and he had risen slowly but steadily through the ranks. At first he had been driven by an inner rage directed towards his father, but even then there had been a tiny part of him that had also wanted to impress the old man.

  Now he held a position of command at the Legion’s primary base in the south-western corner of the Empire. He harboured no illusions that he would rise any further. His lowly birth would see to that. But he felt as though he had made the most of himself that he could, and he had his father to thank for giving him the opportunity to do so.

  Unfortunately, he would never find out if the man who had left him shivering in the rain outside the Legion’s timber hut, where he was discovered and brought inside by a surprised but disinterested sergeant-at-arms, was proud of the career he’d carved out. Some years later, after he had made corporal serving under General Vitrian, he learned of the fire in the Blackridge merchant’s quarter that had claimed a dozen lives, including that of his father. He had never had the chance to thank the man that had most likely saved his life; a man who had probably died believing that his only son hated him.

  Sturben lowered himself onto his cot with a sigh of relief. It felt good to lie flat after a march. His muscles and bones ached dully, while the inside of his thighs were sore and chafed after a full day spent in the saddle. The smell of a dozen dinners being prepared outside wafted into the tent, but he did not rise. He told himself he would lay a while to rest before seeking out supper, but a short time later his snores reached the ears of those gathered around the nearest cookfires.

  It was still dark when a commotion outside caused him to lurch suddenly upright from his cot. Through the fabric-thin tent walls came the sounds of animalistic snarling, frightened whinnies and the stamping of hooves. Sturben was immediately alert. What in the blazes? He jumped from his bed and hurriedly pulled on his tunic and boots before racing outside.

  The fog had closed in upon them as he slept. It now lay across the camp like a suffocating white blanket. Unable to see more than a few inches in front of his nose, Sturben rushed towards where he had secured his horse, guiding himself more by memory than by sight. He saw dark silhouettes of his men around him as they too came to investigate the disturbance.

  Both the snarls and whinnies had ceased by the time he arrived at the spot where a gnarled root protruding from the rock face had provided a handy place to tie his mount. But of the animal, there was now no sign. He stared off impotently into the mist. When it was clear he would neither see nor hear the horse, he crouched down and examined the ground.

  “Any sign of her, sir?” asked Sergeant Grimes behind him.

  Sturben traced the outlines of two sets of tracks in the mud with his fingertips. “A beast of some kind,” he replied. “A cat, but larger. The size of a mastiff at least.”

  “Sounds like a crag cat,” said the s
ergeant. “Rare to see them this far south, but it’s not unknown.”

  “Rarer still for one to come this close to camp,” Sturben mused. When he raised his hand, the tips of his fingers were stained with a dark liquid. As he sniffed it, there was a faint metallic odour. Tentatively, he dabbed a finger to his tongue, which confirmed his suspicions. “There’s blood on the ground among the prints,” he said aloud. “The beast obviously attacked the horse, which broke free of its tether. Both sets of tracks then lead away into the mist.”

  “Shall I organise a search, sir?”

  Sturben shook his head. “It will be impossible to find her in this fog, even if she still lives.” Trying not to let his disquiet show on his face, he stood up and walked back to the camp. The horse had just been a Legion charger and he had no personal connection to the animal, but it still had been a fine beast, and valuable. It felt like extremely poor luck to have lost her on the first night of their journey. They had come too far already to return to Bloodstone for another, and in any case he wasn’t keen to risk the general’s wrath should he show his face there again so soon. I shall be walking the rest of the way, he thought grimly.

  Before returning to his tent, Sturben crossed to the far edge of the camp, moving slowly for fear of tripping over a grassy tussock or bedroll. The prison cart still sat where they had left it that evening. Peering through the mist, he saw two huddled figures slumped on the floor. Neither moved, but without climbing inside the cage with them he was unable to tell whether or not they had slept through the disturbance. He wondered if he should question them, before shrugging and groping blindly back the way he had come. What could the captives possibly tell him about an animal attack?

  The mist had still not lifted when they set out again shortly after dawn. It seemed to deaden all sound, so that each man might almost have believed himself to be marching alone. It was uncomfortably damp as well, and cold with it. After a while, Sturben began to shiver in his armour. He had long since removed his helmet in order to try and see as much as was possible through the fog, and his hair hung wetly down his face and the nape of his neck.