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

by Alan Ratcliffe

  “Send for the duke’s sons.” There was no need for him to say to which duke he referred. After issuing the order, a weariness descended upon him. As the captain hurried away to carry out his summons, Adelmar went back into the study.

  While not large, the room was bright and airy. Behind the hardwood desk, three lead-framed windows looked out over the endless, blue-grey ocean. But he turned his back to these, heading instead for the opposite wall where a pair of glazed double doors opened onto a small stone balcony.

  The entire castle and its surroundings were laid out below him, and he drank in the sight of it. It was hard not to be impressed. The Vigil, as it was known, was a hulking, square fortress built on top of a rocky islet in the centre of Sentry Bay, a wide, crescent-shaped cove. It was almost entirely hollow; the inner courtyard below was a wide-open space used for training, and even now he could hear the distant clang of steel meeting steel as Legion drill-masters put soldiers through their paces. Four round towers stood at each corner, and it was these that housed most of the soldiers and servants, as well as the kitchens, cramped dining halls and the castle forge. There was no great hall, for the Vigil had no lord and entertained no guests; it was a bastion, a military stronghold for the Empire in the south. Instead it had an enormous tower built into its southern wall, overlooking the Calladorian Channel.

  The upper floors of this tower were given over to private apartments, of which the study in which Adelmar now stood was a part, while at the top was a large signal fire. This was never allowed to go out, and in even the darkest nights it helped steer ships towards one of the vast harbours that book-ended the bay; to the west a military harbour large enough to contain an entire fleet of warships, to the east civilian wharves used by fishing and trading vessels. At each point of the crescent, past the furthest end of each harbour, were two beacon-towers, identical in appearance and purpose. However, unlike The Vigil’s signal-fire, these beacons were kept dark, only to be set alight in one particular circumstance. If the look-outs stationed at either tower caught sight of an invading fleet, the fires would be lit, giving warning to those within the bay. Such occasions were rare; in even his grandfather’s lifetime, those beacons had remained dark and cold.

  Adelmar looked to the north, where a wide stone bridge, half a mile long, led from the fortress gatehouse to the coast. On the far side of the water, another pair of tall round towers stood guard over the entrance to the bridge, the only way to reach The Vigil by foot. Between them was a thick curtain wall broken only by an entranceway fortified with a pair of heavy steel portcullises.

  To the west of this great gatehouse was the mouth of a wide, fast-flowing river, the Adamant, on either side of which two very different settlements had sprung up. On the eastern bank was the town of Dunford, a motley collection of ramshackle timber houses, taverns and stores. Adelmar often felt that the only barrier to the entire populace falling into piracy was the close proximity of the Legion. Instead, it housed fishermen and dock-workers, who managed to eke a living on the scraps that didn’t make it to the far wealthier harbour of Ehrenburg, only a three-day voyage further north.

  The greater part of the town’s economy, in fact, was built upon the second settlement across the river to the west. Here, behind the military docks, was an enormous, semi-permanent army camp; a city-sized maze of tents and pavilions, ringed by a tall palisade of thick wooden stakes driven into the ground. Currently, with the troops Adelmar had brought with him that morning, the camp was full, with near twenty thousand soldiers stationed within.

  There was an almost constant stream of traffic crossing the bridge between the settlements, as supplies from the town were brought to the palisade. Adelmar knew that a great many camp followers would be among them: washerwomen taking in dirty clothes for a handful of coppers, hawkers of food, alcohol and trinkets, and dozens of women from the town who, with nothing else to sell, sold themselves instead. There would be no shortage of soldiers looking for a warm body to share their bedrolls at night, happy to spend whatever coin they possessed for such fleeting comfort.

  A few moments later, Adelmar saw the distant figure of his adjutant emerge from the base of the tower and march towards the fortress gatehouse. The soldiers and commanders from Strathearn, like all the levies, were housed within the army camp. It would likely be some time before Bergen returned with Kester and Fearghus Maccallam.

  He mind turned then towards the two letters still sitting on the desk behind him. They had been pressed urgently into his hands by the nervous castellan, Sir Ghyle, almost the moment he had set foot inside the gatehouse less than two hours earlier.

  He had been waiting there for Adelmar, in the passage between the two raised portcullises. An old knight with his fighting days far behind him, Sir Ghyle’s head looked almost as though it had been placed upon his neck upside down. Not a single hair remained upon his crown, leaving it as bald as an egg while, in sharp contrast, his beard and whiskers reached down past his chest. This was his pride and joy; thick, neatly combed and almost pure white in colour, this magnificent beard lay upon a fine silk tunic of deep viridian. He had been a doughty warrior in his time, one of those who had distinguished himself during Caderyn’s rebellion, and Adelmar had always thought of him as a dependable custodian of a stronghold of such strategic importance.

  Yet, when Adelmar had arrived, marching at the head of his own regiment, Sir Ghyle had been wringing his wrinkled hands in consternation. “It is good to see you, my lord,” he’d begun, the smile upon his lips betrayed by the worry in his eyes. “Your journey went well, I trust?”

  Adelmar glowered, recalling his daughter’s sickness and his fight with Jarrod. He wondered idly whether the wretch had yet made it back to the capital, or whether he’d succumbed to either the elements or one of the gangs of bandits that roamed the Empire’s highways. If he had, then it would be no less than he deserved. “We are here,” he replied gruffly. “That is all that matters.”

  The castellan’s smile faltered. “You are right, my lord, of course.” He gestured towards the bridge, but before moving on, Adelmar glanced behind. In the distance, he could see the bulk of his army; rows upon rows of armoured soldiers marching and riding on horseback, crossing the bridge that led to the army camp. Although he was not within sight, Adelmar knew that his brother’s former adjutant, Trayner, was at their head.

  He watched them a moment before turning away, satisfied. He was pleasantly surprised by how Jarrod’s man had reacted to the loss of his company commander. Following that night at the inn, Trayner had been obedient and industrious, leading the regiment of his father’s household guard with aplomb. Not only that, he had shown a knack for more logistical matters; each night organising their camps so that the men from each of the lowland houses had been kept far away from one another. Up until then, the simmering feuds that still existed between the people of Strathearn, Caer Lys and Creag an Tuirc had resulted in several scuffles, but once Trayner took on organisational duties not a single fight had broken out. In recognition, Adelmar had named him as camp commandant, placing him at the head of the entire army settlement. It was a burdensome duty in truth, but such was the strength of the impression the grizzled veteran had made on him, that Adelmar did not expect his new-found trust in him to be misplaced.

  As they crossed the bridge, sunlight pouring through a rare chink in the iron-grey clouds above struck the white stone and dazzled his eyes. The castellan prattled on about matters that interested him little, and Adelmar found himself gazing out across the bay to his right, where the quays and wooden piers were thick with a forest of masts. The sight pleased him. A large part of the Empire’s naval strength was here, a mighty armada to carry an army across the sea. Soon. As ever, when his nostrils caught the scent of upcoming battle, he felt alive.

  “... and my wife and I have vacated our chambers for your use during your stay, Highness,” Sir Ghyle was saying.

  Adelmar grunted acknowledgement, indicating that such basic courtesy was
unworthy of gratitude. It was to be expected that whenever the Lord Commander of the Imperial Legion was present at The Vigil he would occupy the grandest chambers of the Beacon Tower.

  “There is... one matter in need of your attention, Highness,” the castellan went on, before apologetically handing both letters to him. “The first arrived two days ago. It bears the Maccallam crest, but as it is only the imperial seal we do not break, I took the liberty of reading it.”

  Adelmar glanced at the letters in his hand. “And?” he demanded.

  “It is from the duke. A report of an incident that took place in Strathearn a few nights past. Property belonging to the Order was destroyed, and their elder killed. An entire district of the city was burned and a number of guardsmen lost their lives in the riot that followed.” Adelmar looked up sharply and the castellan sighed. “A terrible incident, and all the details are there for you to read in the duke’s letter. Then, just this morning, we received a second letter, this one bearing the imperial seal. I thought it best that I deliver it to you the moment you arrived.”

  Adelmar turned the second letter over and examined the sealing wax. It was unbroken. He frowned. Two days was enough time for a bird to reach The Vigil from Ehrenburg. If the emperor had received a similar letter explaining what had occurred in Strathearn...

  “I will read these in my study,” he replied. Sir Ghyle appeared relieved. Shortly after they reached the fortress and, after inviting Adelmar and his family for supper that evening in their new chambers, the castellan hurried away on some errand. As Bergen started to organise the troops around the courtyard, Adelmar had marched to the Beacon Tower, where he’d found the contents of his father’s letter to be much as he had feared.

  After ruminating once again on the events of that morning, Adelmar turned his back on the activity taking place outside and strolled back inside the study. While he waited for his adjutant to return with the duke’s sons, he seated himself behind the desk and ran his fingers thoughtfully over his father’s letter. Adelmar would be the first to admit he did not have a mind that lent itself naturally to politics, preferring the simplicity of a blade in his hand to the labyrinthine plots and schemes one had to negotiate when dealing with diplomats and the various feuds of the land that had festered for generations. Yet even he was able to see the pitfalls of whichever path he chose this day.

  He was still deep in thought when there was a rap upon the study door, which opened to admit the three men he had been awaiting. Behind Bergen stood two soldiers, tall like their father, their chests crossed with the distinctive blue-green breacan sashes of their House. Though possessing similar features that marked them as kin, the brothers were different otherwise in appearance. Kester, the elder, had auburn hair, almost red, that tumbled to his shoulders, and a clipped beard of the same colour. Fearghus, meanwhile, was clean-shaven, his brown hair cut short. He also lacked his brother’s barrel-chest and strong shoulders. Both eyed him warily as they entered. Either they had learned of the recent events in their homeland, or were simply unsure why they had been summoned.

  They stood stiffly in front of the desk, while Bergen left the room and closed the study door behind him. Adelmar regarded them silently for a time, hoping in vain for another solution to present itself. Finally, he took up the letter from the duke. “Are you aware of what has occurred in Strathearn while you have been away?” he asked.

  The brothers shared a look. He read tension in their faces. “A rumour has been circulating the camp,” Kester replied cautiously. “We have had no official word as yet from our father, but-”

  “But I have,” Adelmar finished, brandishing the letter. He passed it to the elder brother to read. “The facts seem clear. Members of the Order and those of their faith were attacked in the city four nights past. Many on both sides were killed, along with a number of guardsmen caught in the middle. A church and statue belonging to the Order were destroyed.”

  Kester Maccallam’s face reddened as he read his father’s words, while Fearghus smiled nervously. “The Order has not been embraced in our lands as quickly as in the south, it’s true, but I’m sure these were the actions of a minority of our people, who are being made to answer for their crimes even as we speak.”

  “The emperor has been quite clear about the high regard he has for the Order,” Adelmar said, keeping his face carefully blank. “He takes any actions against the Empire’s official faith as a personal slight and has no mercy for the perpetrators. Or those that sanction their actions.” He laid his hand on the second letter, upon which the imperial seal was clearly visible. “The question is, what shall we do about it?”

  Fearghus’s eyes fell to the floor, but Kester appeared horrified. He crumpled the duke’s letter in his fist. “How dare you suggest that-” he blustered.

  Adelmar silenced him with a raised hand, before taking up the rolled parchment. He kept his face still, betraying no emotion. “Winter is a perilous season for the Empire’s messenger pigeons,” he said carefully. “The weather is harsh, and the hawks, lacking other sources of food, hunt them down in greater numbers.” He waited until both brothers had taken note of the letter he held, and then raised it to the flame of a candle that sat upon his desk. He held it there until the paper caught light and began to smoke. “It seems to me that in such conditions it is entirely possible for a bird to be sent and never reach its destination.”

  Before the flame reached his fingers, Adelmar dropped what remained of the letter to the desktop. Within moments nothing remained but dark grey ash. “My lord,” Fearghus said at last. “I’m not sure if I take your meaning correctly.”

  Adelmar held his gaze. “There is no meaning to take. We sail in two days’ time, I merely summoned you here to tell you to start preparing your troops for departure.” Fearghus, clearly the shrewder brother, nodded thoughtfully. Kester, however, appeared baffled, his eyes wide and uncomprehending. “Our campaign against the Tenebrians is like to be a long one,” Adelmar continued. “It may well be several years until we return. My father is an old man. Much as I wish he could live forever, it may well be that upon our return his heir will be required to take his place upon the Golden Throne. It is further possible that certain matters of policy will be like to change under his rule. Strathearn and its people have long been allies to the Crown. I see no reason why that must change.”

  Understanding dawned at last in Kester’s face, and with expressions of gratitude the brothers Maccallam left the study to return across the water to the camp. Adelmar watched them go, wondering if he had chosen the right path. His father would not be pleased, but any repercussions could wait until Adelmar returned home victorious. Circumstances then may well have changed.

  The study door clicked closed, and Adelmar looked up to see Bergen standing there. It was clear from his expression that he wished to speak. “Don’t stand there clucking like a disapproving hen, captain,” he said irritably. “Speak what is on your mind.”

  “Not disapproving, my lord,” the younger man replied. “On the contrary, I merely wished to say that your wisdom would make the emperor proud.”

  “Proud?” Adelmar snorted derisively. “Perhaps you do not know him as well as I do. His heir or no, were it not for the sea that will soon separate us, I think I’d find my head on a pike for what just took place.”

  “He will be angry at first, perhaps,” Bergen agreed. “But in time I believe he will come to be grateful for it.”

  Adelmar frowned. “You know what it was he asked me to do?”

  “I didn’t read his letter, my lord, but I guessed at its contents. You were wise to choose a different path. As unpopular as the Maccallams are among the other lowland lords, they are still kin. Any move against Strathearn would inflame the entire north.”

  “Rebellion,” Adelmar said ruefully. “Not just the rabble beyond the mountains, but every lowlands house as well. To risk such just as we are preparing to make war across the sea... it makes me wonder whether my father’s mind is slippin
g.” He grunted. “More like it is just that he believes the northerners to be simple-minded, fur-clad barbarians, and that he is simply bringing an unruly lord to heel. But we have lived among them, fought against them, have we not? We know differently. To do what he asked of me was to risk losing the war when it has barely begun.”

  “And instead you’ve strengthened the alliance with Strathearn and its vassals, and earned the allegiance of two of its generals... not just to the Crown, but you personally, my lord.” The young soldier smiled. “Such loyalties may prove invaluable, in time.”

  Adelmar regarded his adjutant silently. Not for the first time, he was struck by the young soldier’s perspicacity. “It would not be wise to speak of such matters outside of this room,” he cautioned.

  “Yes my lord,” Bergen replied, chastened.

  With a nod, Adelmar rose and strode to one wall of the study, where a large map had been pinned. It showed two landmasses, one to the north and another in the south, divided by a narrow sea. The northern continent was familiar to him; he had marched across it for more years than he cared to count. All the towns and cities of the Empire were marked on it, from Westcove in the north down to The Vigil, its most southern extremity.

  But it was the landmass below theirs which drew his attention. He raised his hand to brush his fingertips along its coastline. A couple of ports had been marked there, but where the interior of the country should have been drawn was just a blank space. “We know so little of their lands,” he mused, as Bergen came to stand by his side.

  “Not for want of trying, my lord.”

  “Indeed.” Adelmar smiled grimly. They had sent spies to Tenebria, secreting them among trading vessels. But for all that, no reports had ever been received from them. Most like they had suffered the same fate as the unfortunate specimen Slake had gotten hold of. “Only one item we’ve received from the Five Courts, and it started this war.”