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

by Alan Ratcliffe

  Looking around at his companions with the earnestness of youth was the young private, Carsley. He sat straighter when Adelmar’s gaze came to rest upon him. “Thank you again for bringing me along, m’lord,” the lad hissed in a loud whisper. On Adelmar’s orders, Bergen had instructed that the crossing from the ship to the cliffs be carried out in silence. “It’s a real honour. I won’t let you down.” He was practically bouncing in his seat with excitement.

  Adelmar forced a smile onto his lips. “I’m sure you will acquit yourself well, soldier,” he murmured in reply. The young private beamed with pride.

  They fell back into silence. Adelmar looked moodily out over waves that reflected the silvery moonlight. He could see several other boats like theirs, in which sat the hunched figures of soldiers that Bergen and Trayner had hand-picked for the task. Two centuries, altogether; more than enough, if it was done right. Their job was relatively simple compared to that which faced the four of them, however. All they need to do is await my signal.

  When the cliffs were near enough to block out most of the stars in the night sky, Adelmar stared at their base, until he saw what he had hoped for. A darker patch of shadow, smaller than one of Ehrenburg’s city gates. Moonlight glinted on metal; a grille, with deeper darkness beyond. The key to it all, he thought. The success or failure of the war rested upon what lay beyond the grille.

  So far, everything was proceeding to plan. The gate was there, just as Slake’s report had said it would be. I hope that the rest of it is as accurate. He thought back to the interrogation he had witnessed a part of, and shuddered. It would prove to be correct, he decided. No man could be subjected to such treatment for so long and not tell all that he knows.

  Within a few minutes they reached the base of the cliff, and he could see the small gate more clearly... though what lay beyond was still shrouded in darkness. The boat bumped and rolled as the sailors fought to keep it under control. While the crossing had been smooth, waves dashed against the rock at the bottom of the cliff, churning the water. Adelmar was grateful that it was a clear night, but it was still not ideal for what they planned.

  One of the sailors threw a grappling hook towards the metal grille, catching hold of the bars on the second attempt. He and another crewman used the secured line to haul their boat closer to the opening and then grabbed the grille. They held the boat as still as they could while the four soldiers began their ascent. At his insistence, Bergen went first, the metal bars serving as a useful launching point as well as keeping the rowboat in place.

  While his adjutant made his way up the cliff, Adelmar secured his sword against his back with a leather strap. Then, when Bergen was a dozen feet above his head, he followed.

  As his feet left the boat, Adelmar began to regret his lack of sleep over the preceding days. His arms felt heavy, his grip slippery and loose. He had always made a point of keeping himself fit, but felt his fatigue keenly. By the time he had reached the top of the metal grille, his fingers scrabbling for purchase in the sheer rock face, he had already begun to question the wisdom of his insistence that he be part of this initial assault on the tower.

  But, little by little, he made progress. The rock was solid, its surface craggy and pitted enough to provide plentiful hand and footholds. He realised very quickly, though, that he would not be the first to reach the summit, nor even the third. Within a short time, the soles of Bergen’s feet were far enough above him as to disappear almost from sight, while the young private, Carsley, scrambled past him before he had even cleared the metal grille. God’s teeth, the boy climbs like a squirrel, he thought.

  Even Trayner, his senior in years, was keeping pace with him despite being the last to start his ascent. He glanced across and saw the veteran campaigner looking at him strangely. They were perhaps a hundred feet up, less than a third of the way up the cliff, but far enough that the boat was a dizzying distance below them. Something clearly bothered the older man. He looked as though he was about to speak, but then turned back to the rock, shaking his head and redoubled his efforts. Before long, he too was above Adelmar and extending the distance between them.

  With gritted teeth, Adelmar grabbed onto handholds and pulled himself up the rock face, inch by inch. Eventually, he settled into a rhythm, his arms and legs moving almost of their own volition, and his mind began to wander. Mostly, he thought about Slake’s report. He had read it so many times, spent so many hours poring over each line, that every detail had been branded into his memory.

  Geographically and politically, we know little of our enemy, the spy-master had written, shockingly so given both our relative proximity and that trade of one kind or another has taken place between our lands for centuries. They are secretive and elusive, that we do know for certain. They have no interest in diplomacy, that we also know, for they have no ambassador at the Imperial Court and the condition in which our envoy was returned to us also shows that they repel any attempt to forge diplomatic links.

  What other knowledge do we possess? We have mapped their coastline from afar, or at least the northern half of their lands, those closest to us. This tells us that their lands are as large, if not larger, than the Empire, though without knowing how much of the interior is habitable, this information is not in itself particularly telling.

  While our first attempt to reach their shores cannot be described as anything other than a catastrophic failure, it did at least reveal to us what is likely the Tenebrians’ best defence; perhaps even their greatest strength. Without knowing what their creators call them, our forces have taken to referring to the tall structures that line their coast as ‘lens towers’. Those that survived the first attempted crossing speak of the light twinkling from the summit of these towers, before rays “as bright as the sun”, as one witness described them, were emitted, reducing our ships to ash within minutes.

  After interviewing Tenebrian ‘sources’ (at this point, in his mind Adelmar could almost hear the author’s distinctive verbal tic inserted into the text) I have happened upon a few other illuminating facts. As far as we can tell, these towers ring their entire coastline, never more than ten miles apart. Each one is heavily guarded, as you would expect. Garrisons of up to a hundred soldiers stationed in barracks around the base of each tower, which are operated by a crew of around a dozen; less in some cases, more in others.

  There is one exception, that our source was aware of, at least. In the east, a tower sits upon the tip of a peninsula, connected to the mainland by a ridge of rock little wider than a keep’s curtain wall. At the foot of this peninsula, sitting upon the mainland, is an old fort, some half a mile from the tower it keeps watch over. It is here that the soldiers guarding it are garrisoned. It is a well-chosen spot, for the fort protects the tower completely from an attack by land, while the tower itself sits at the top of a three-hundred foot cliff, commanding unparalleled views across the ocean in every direction. Beneath it, a small water-gate protected by a thick portcullis allows the soldiers and tower-operators quick access to the sea. The portcullis is opened via a winch in the tower itself. In my personal opinion, its position is highly defensible, I merely pass on the information as it was given to me. I leave it to more strategic minds than mine to think on it further.

  So, armed with such information, representing as it does the sum total of our entire knowledge of the Tenebrians, what else may we extrapolate? We are aware that unlike ourselves, they are governed by what is known as the Five Courts. I believe that these can be thought of as distinct provinces, and the nature of their defences suggests that there is at least a basic level of collaboration between them...

  That was as much of the report as Adelmar had memorised. The information he had required had been there in the first part. All that had remained was to devise a suitable strategy... which eventually he had done.

  Slake had called the lens towers guarding the coast the Tenebrian’s greatest strength, and from what they had seen thus far at least, it appeared he was correct. But Adelmar was
undeterred. He found himself thinking of Fiske, his old master-of-arms, who had been his first and best teacher in the arts of war. He was known as ‘The Fist’ by the other young Legion recruits, though never within his hearing; a name that matched both his temperament and his looks. Sergeant Fiske had been a fearsome warrior in his younger days, before the years and the loss of one arm had forced him into semi-retirement. From the first day Adelmar had arrived at the Ehrenburg Legion barracks, thin as a rake and racked with nerves, The Fist had latched on to him as a target, forcing him to run further, work harder and train longer than any of his fellows.

  For a gangling, awkward ten-year-old boy more accustomed to spiritual pursuits it had been a nightmare. For over a year he had barely been permitted to sleep, and on the occasions his back had made contact with his mattress, the bruises that covered his body made it painful to even lie down. Countless times he had cursed his father’s name for forcing him through the same training as the other Legion recruits, rather than engage a more forgiving tutor to school him alone at the palace.

  But his skinny frame had quickly filled out, growing hard with muscle. He had learned discipline as well as how to wield a sword and shield. To this day, Adelmar considered the stern master-of-arm’s lack of respect for his status as a prince of the realm and heir to the imperial throne to be the greatest gift he had ever received.

  But the experience did not just improve him physically. Fiske had hammered tactics into his head with the same fervour he had directed the other recruits to rain blows upon his skinny frame on the training square. How to deal with an overwhelming enemy was one of The Fist’s favourite lessons.

  “There is no foe so strong that they cannot be beaten,” he would bellow across the training square. He always adopted the same posture when he was lecturing the shivering youths that would one day form the backbone of the Empire; arm behind his back, legs apart, chest out, the cords on his neck standing out as he made himself heard above the bustle of the barracks. “If you do not believe this simple truth, you may as well slit your own throats now and spare the enemy the trouble. Isn’t that right, Crowder?” The other recruits would titter dutifully at whichever youth had been singled out that morning. Adelmar had not been spared this minor shame. “Doubt will kill you quicker than any weapon wielded by a foe. If you don’t believe that you can prevail, then you will die. Some of you may even be mourned, but not by me.”

  The questions would always fly thick and fast, to be swatted aside one after another by the gruff master-at-arms.

  “What if your enemy wears heavy armour, and you have none?”

  “Wear him down. He’ll weigh twice as much as you and move half as fast. Tire him out, then finish him off.”

  “What if his reach is longer?”

  “Get in nice and close, so he can’t hit you back. Get your thumbs in his eyes, use your teeth if you have to. Fuck honour. Ask a dead man what his honour is worth.”

  “What if he’s faster?”

  “Bide your time, study his moves and when you see the opening, take it. One effective strike is worth more than a hundred harmless slashes to your shield.”

  On and on the questions came. Fiske had been a heartless bastard, but even a young Adelmar had seen that he enjoyed playing to the crowd at such times. On one occasion, he had even plucked up the courage to ask a question of his own, hoping to catch the gruff instructor out.

  “What if your enemy stands with five thousand men at his back, and you have none?”

  The other recruits turned to stare at him, and he could feel the flush spreading across his cheeks. Fiske fell momentarily silent as he considered the question. “If it were any of these other lads, I would tell them to run. One man can move faster than an army and hide easier,” he replied slowly, after a long pause. “But as for you, Longshanks, I’d say you should hope your daddy’s treasury holds enough coin to make those men a better offer than they’re getting already. But only a bad commander would let that situation arise in the first place.” He stared at the assembled recruits, eyeing up each one in turn. “Let that be a lesson to all of you, as some of you may even lead your own troops one day. A good commander can always spot his foe’s weaknesses. But a great one can take his enemy’s greatest strength and find a way to turn it against him.”

  It was a lesson that had stayed with Adelmar. It had been in his mind the morning he had stood upon the mountaintop, looking down upon Caderyn’s forces with a dispassionate eye. He had spent some time musing over what the northern general’s greatest strength had been. It wasn’t numbers, or the equipment and fighting skills of his men. The Legion could beat them on every count. They had chosen good ground for the battle, he knew. The Granite Pass would permit only a narrow column of attackers through, allowing the defenders to hold them while archers picked them off at will from above. It would also prevent them from retreating, if the forces under his own command could break them. But that alone would not guarantee victory, if they could not be routed.

  Eventually, he had decided that Caderyn’s greatest strength was his compassion. It was why he had gathered so many followers so quickly. It was that which had compelled him to bring along his people’s families as well as their fighters, ensuring they would not be left to throw themselves on the uncertain mercies of the Imperial Legion. It was the same compassion that made him station those unable to join in the battle behind his troops, allowing them an easy escape route should his army be defeated. What had been his strength proved his undoing, when Adelmar and his vanguard fell upon the same families the northern lord had taken such measures to protect. Seeing them slaughtered before their eyes had broken his army and his spirit. Adelmar had taken no pleasure in the act, it had been a means to victory, nothing more. It was a battle that made his name, in more ways than one, yet he knew now that he still bore the scars of it, a quarter of a century later.

  Scaling the cliff, inching his way closer to their target, Adelmar smiled ruefully despite the pain in his hands and limbs. He wondered what Fiske would make of the doubts that had assailed his mind in recent days. If the old tyrant had still been alive, that is. No doubt he would box his ears and tell him that regret was a luxury only the victorious could afford.

  Mostly, though, he suspected that the old warhorse would be pleased that his lessons had remained so ingrained in at least one of the youths to have passed through his hands. All these years later, and he was still applying the same principles. The towers are their greatest strength, he thought. How then to turn them into a weakness?

  In his mind’s eye, he was again stood in that training square, this time a man grown. Fiske, ten years in his grave, was hectoring and lecturing him as he had so often in his youth.

  “What if your enemy lies within an impregnable barrier?”

  “Giving up already, boy? There is no such thing. Find the weakest point, and strike there. Hard and fast, while his confidence in his protection keeps him complacent.”

  “What if there is no weak point?”

  “There always is, if you have the wit to find it. The snail believes himself invulnerable within his shell, yet the starling always finds a way to crack it. Think!”

  “It’s impossible! A hundred men guard each tower, ten miles apart. A ring of steel, encircling the entire land. It cannot be done.”

  “Perhaps your brother is right, maybe your brains are addled. Think it through, before I knock some sense into you. For all the good it might do.”

  “Five hundred towers at least... fifty thousand men in all, if not more. Egads, their numbers...”

  “A colossal army to be sure. Maybe you should give up already, beg your father for a post more suited to your ability. A milkmaid, perhaps.”

  “No... not an army. They’re spread too thin. It would take weeks to cross from one side of the country to the other, and even then...”

  “Now we touch upon the heart of it. Continue. What does it tell you?”

  “They cannot have a standing army, the n
umbers are too great. Perhaps a small militia in their cities, wherever they are, but the bulk of their forces must be spread around their border.”

  “Keep going, boy.”

  “If you could capture just one tower, without alerting others, even a moderate force would be enough to gain a foothold. Even after we are discovered, it would take at least two days for them to muster even a thousand men, and by then we could have brought in our full strength safely by sea.”

  “Good. It is easier to crack a nut than crush it in your fist. But how would you capture that tower? Your strategy hinges upon that first step.”

  “There is one place. Its guards are garrisoned half a mile away. But it sits at the top of a cliff, an army could not climb it... and without an army we are doomed to fail.”

  “That’s it then? I was right to be disappointed in you.”

  “No... wait. An army cannot scale the cliff, but a small enough squad could. If they could raise the gate, and enough men waited below for their signal... it could be done.”

  “It sounds as though you found their weak point, my lad. I may make a commander of you yet.”

  You did, you mean old bastard, Adelmar thought, with a faint smile. With a grunt of effort, he pulled himself further up the cliff face, edging nearer to their goal. His arms and shoulders by now were racked with pain; the tips of his fingers raw and bleeding where the rock had begun to bite into his skin.

  Just then, an urgent hiss from above his head caused him to look up. A pale face stared down at him framed against the moonlight, only a dozen feet above. For just a moment, he wondered why or indeed how Bergen had got turned upside down, but then his perspective shifted and he realised his adjutant was leaning out over the edge of the cliff. Somehow, while his mind was elsewhere, he had climbed almost to the top. The realisation that he was so close made him forget his weariness, and only a few minutes later strong arms were hauling him onto flat ground.