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

by Alan Ratcliffe

  “It’s a shame we didn’t lay money on you being the first to the top, my lord,” Bergen said with a grin while Adelmar caught his breath. “I might have been able to retire a rich man.”

  Adelmar clapped a hand to his shoulder. “There’s a difference between losing and choosing not to win,” he replied, still breathing heavily. “I merely decided that if their guards were awaiting our arrival, I’d rather that the first neck their blades found was not my own.”

  The breeze was stronger at the cliff’s summit than it had been at the bottom, and Adelmar steadied himself as he leaned forward to peer over its edge. He was just able to see dark shapes on the water below them. They would be invisible to an unsuspecting lookout, but when you knew what to look for, the boats were there. His eyes travelled to the horizon, where a dim grey line the breadth of a hair divided the sea from the sky above it. Dawn was not far off.

  “We must make haste,” he whispered to the three men arrayed behind him. Trayner stood closest to him, the same strange expression he had noted during their climb still on his face. Whatever is wrong with the man?

  Slightly rattled, he stared up at the stone walls of the tower, trying to decide the best way to proceed. It was perhaps fifty to sixty feet tall from its base to the tip of the unusual apparatus that protruded from its top, but less than half the distance up its side was a small balcony overlooking the ocean.

  At his signal, Carsley, the young private, unwrapped a length of rope they had brought for just this eventuality. At its end was a grapple, like that which the sailors had used below to secure their boat. When Adelmar was satisfied that no guards stood upon the balcony, the young man twirled the rope around and flung it towards the opening. On the first two attempts, the hook fell back down towards them. On the third attempt, however, it caught upon a stone balustrade and held firm when Adelmar tugged upon it.

  This time, he went first. Excitement sent his blood pumping throughout his body, chasing the fatigue from his limbs. For now. Adelmar knew that his ageing body would exact its price for this night’s work eventually, but at this moment he felt as though he could fly. He shinned up the rope in moments, and landed softly upon the balcony.

  Taking care to make no sound, he lifted the strap from his shoulders and quickly removed Duty from its cloth wrappings. While he waited for the others to join him, he took a step towards the doorway that led inside the tower.

  As he did so, there was a sharp intake of breath. Adelmar found himself face to face with a dark-bearded man, his eyes opened wide in fright. Without even the need for thought, Adelmar’s hand shot out and clamped over the man’s mouth, slamming him back against the archway and knocking the air from his lungs. At the same time, his other arm drove forward, thrusting his blade deep into the man’s midriff. Still with a rough hand held firmly over his face, he made no sound as his life drained from him, covering Adelmar’s sword-arm with a thick, cloying warmth. When his terror-filled eyes finally glazed over, Adelmar dragged him out onto the balcony. Bergen and Carsley had already climbed up, and watched wordlessly as he heaved the body over the rail and sent it plummeting down towards the distant waves.

  One down, he thought, while they waited for the last member of their party to join them. Once they were all stood upon the balcony they split into pairs. Trayner took Carsley, and together they disappeared up the flight of steps that led to the top of the tower.

  On the wall opposite the balcony they had entered through was a door, and with Bergen following close behind him, Adelmar tiptoed across to it and eased it open a fraction. The room beyond was dark, but in the dim light cast by the embers of a fire on the far wall he saw the outline of several bunks. In the silence, the soft regular breaths of sleeping bodies could be heard.

  Adelmar signalled to Bergen to follow, and carefully pulled the door wide enough to allow them inside. As he did so, there was a minute creak from the hinges. He froze on the spot, but when it was clear that the sound had not disturbed the sleepers he crept inside.

  Three of the bunks were occupied by man-sized mounds huddled beneath blankets. It was the work of but a few moments to silence the first two. However, as their lifeblood seeped into the sheets and blankets of their beds, one of the dying guards let out a rattling gurgle that roused the third. He sprang from his bed, clothed only by a loincloth around his waist. Adelmar was upon him in an instant, vaulting over a bunk and hauling the guard to the floor. Before he could cry out, Adelmar clapped his mouth closed and drew the sharp edge of his sword across his throat just beneath his jawline. When it was done, he grabbed the blanket from the guard’s now-empty bed and wiped the blade clean. They had made more noise than he had intended, but thankfully the rest of the tower was still.

  As they left the dormitory and stood once again upon the spiral steps leading up and down the tower, Adelmar heard a muffled thump from the floors above. If Trayner and Carsley were enjoying similar success, they had already cleared at least half the guards without raising the alarm. So far, so good.

  Adelmar crept down the stone steps one at a time, straining his ears. As they rounded a corner, the stairwell was filled with an orange glow from the level beneath them. Suddenly, a man’s raucous laughter pierced the silence, followed by animated conversation. The language was unfamiliar and harsh to his ears, but he could tell there were at least two different speakers.

  Adelmar cursed inwardly. Whatever unseen force had guided them thus far and ensured their passage into the tower was smooth had evidently abandoned them at last. A solitary guard caught by surprise, even three sleeping men were one thing, but a room full of awake and alert soldiers was a different prospect altogether.

  Tentatively, Adelmar crept down another two steps, until he stood one above the step bathed in light. Cautiously, he leaned forward until he was able to peer down into the room below. Four men sat at a wooden table in the centre, playing cards. A quick look was enough to tell Adelmar that it was the bottom level of the tower; the steps came to an end there, while a heavy oaken door in the wall opposite had the look of an entrance to it.

  The men seemed mesmerised by the game they played, and he took a further moment to study them. They were all dressed similarly in light mailed shirts, while a variety of weapons lay around them; leaning against pieces of furniture, or placed haphazardly on the ground. Had he been their commander they would have been flogged for such sloppiness; it was clear that in this tower at least the guards had grown complacent, lulled by their confidence in their seemingly unassailable position.

  Two more details caught his attention. Near the bottom of the steps, a round metal shield leaned against the wall. Meanwhile, another doorway stood open, this one revealing a separate flight of steps leading down through crudely carved rock. A winch stood at its top. Four men are all that stand between our success and failure, he thought. It would surely only be a matter of moments before they were joined by Trayner and young Carsley, to match their numbers. But could they afford to wait?

  The question was answered seconds later. One of the men slapped his cards angrily onto the table and pushed back his chair. As he rose, reaching for a curved sabre that leaned against the wall behind him, Adelmar knew that if they were to act, it had to be now. To delay any longer meant risking discovery and losing any advantage that surprise had given them.

  Whenever Adelmar fought on a battlefield, he always entered a state that was almost trance-like. It was as if his mind separated from his body, watching from afar as it went through the motions and movements that had been drummed into him all those years ago. He had never felt fear in battle, his conscious mind had always been too removed from what was taking place around him. It had been a long time since he had felt that last; until then, even that night he had been so focused on stealth that he had been intensely aware of his every action.

  But as he flew down those remaining steps to the ground, that familiar feeling returned. He embraced it like an old friend, settling into the controlled violence that had alwa
ys come so easily. As he entered the guardroom, for what seemed an eternity the men at the table did not react. Likely, they at first believed him to be one of their fellows, coming to join their game. Adelmar watched with strange detachment as he reached for the metal shield. He didn’t think about what to do with it, his body already knew and was shaping itself for the next move even before he had taken a firm grip. Another step, and he swung the shield viciously in a flat arc at the head of the man sitting with his back to him. It smashed into the guard’s skull with a sickening crunch of bone, sending him sprawling across the table in a spray of blood.

  To those still seated, it must have seemed as though a vengeful demon had suddenly landed in their midst. One of the fallen guard’s comrades collapsed to the floor, his feet becoming tangled beneath him in his haste to escape. The part of Adelmar’s brain that remained calm and collected in battle instinctively disregarded him for now, prioritising the guard whose sword was already in his hand.

  The curved blade flashed towards him, but he deflected it easily using the shield he had by now taken a proper hold of. The sound of steel meeting steel rang out across the room. However, the guard’s strike had been poorly aimed and ill-timed; the deflection caught him off-balance and he stumbled. That was all the opening Adelmar needed. Duty hacked downwards at the man’s exposed neck, severing his spine and killing him instantly.

  As he pulled his blade free, he heard a shout behind him as Bergen charged into the room. At the same moment, the guard still sitting at the table shook off the shock of seeing two of his fellows, who seconds earlier had been happily playing cards, cut down in the blink of an eye. He reached for a crossbow that sat upon the table, and hurriedly aimed it. The bolt flew from the weapon, whistling past Adelmar’s ear. He heard a thud and a grunt of pain behind him, but did not stop to see where it landed. As the guard rose, Adelmar hammered his shield fully into his face, knocking him onto his back. Before the man could rise, Adelmar stabbed down with as much force as he could muster, piercing the man’s mail shirt. Immediately the pool of blood from his body began to mix with that of his fellows upon the stone floor.

  When he straightened, Adelmar saw that the final guard had managed to regain his feet. He stood watching him with narrowed eyes, keeping the wooden table between them. The guard shouted at him in the same alien tongue he had heard before, but he was no closer to understanding the meaning. Adelmar began to edge around the table towards him, Duty and the borrowed shield held at the ready.

  Seeing his attempt to communicate fall on deaf ears, the man shrugged and reached for the weapon nearest him; a long spear with a sharp steel tip. Grinning, he began to jab at Adelmar, striking with snake-like speed across the table with the long weapon. Adelmar caught each blow upon his shield, waiting for an opening. The next time the guard struck out, he deflected the spear-tip, then immediately aimed a savage kick at the table. It crashed into the man’s thighs and he fell across it with a startled cry. With a grunt of effort, Adelmar stabbed down again, burying his sword between the guard’s shoulder-blades. There was the sound of splintering wood as the metal tip burst through the tabletop. The guard’s steel-tipped boots danced across the flagstones as he went through his death-throes, and then it was over.

  Panting, Adelmar dropped the shield to the floor with a loud clang. The need for stealth had well and truly passed. It had been perhaps thirty seconds since he had stepped down into the guard-room, and four men lay dead by his hand. His leather jerkin, trousers and both hands were drenched in gore. If he had not earned his nickname before, surely he had done so now. The battle-trance left him, and he glanced around at the devastation he had wrought. It had not been as clean as he would have liked, but the job was done.

  “A lot of bloody good you were,” he muttered, turning towards the steps behind him. He stopped, further words of rebuke dying upon his lips

  Bergen sat slumped upon the floor, his eyes wide but unfocused. His mouth worked silently, teeth stained red. The feathered end of the crossbow bolt protruded from his chest, and already Adelmar could see the dark puddle spreading across the flagstones beneath him. Without a word, Adelmar went to him. He knew he should be relieved, that a decision he did not relish having to make had been taken from his hands by another. But watching his adjutant’s final moments, he felt nothing, only numbness. Yet another I have cursed.

  “I’m sorry,” he murmured. From the frightened, pleading look in Bergen’s eyes, it was clear he wanted to say something. But, unable to draw breath, his final words were left unsaid.

  Adelmar was still kneeling by the body when the others found him a few minutes later. Carsley’s eyes bulged. “The captain! Is he...?”

  “Fuck a duck,” Trayner spat, surveying the scene. “I thought the idea was to do this quiet. Leave some for the rest of us, why don’t you, commander?” He looked down at Bergen’s still form. “Poor blighter,” he added as an afterthought. “Despite the rod stuck up his arse he wasn’t a bad kid, considering.”

  Adelmar stood. “There will be time to mourn him later,” he said, pushing down his own feelings of grief at his adjutant’s passing. “The winch to the water gate is through there. Private, you and Trayner get it open while I...”

  With a loud creak, the door to the tower was pushed open. Framed by the early dawn light was a young man with the same copper complexion as the guards they had encountered. In the crook of his arm was a steaming basket, from which the smell of freshly baked bread wafted. Wide-eyed, he stared at the carnage. Then, before any of them could react, he turned and fled back the way he had come, dropping the basket in the entranceway. Round, crusty loaves rolled across the flagstones.

  Adelmar swore and bolted after him, barging his way through the door, which had swung half-closed. “Open that blasted gate!” he shouted over his shoulder as he ran.

  The boy was already a distance in front of him when Adelmar emerged from the base of the tower, scrambling across the rocky ridge that joined the peninsula to the mainland with the grace of a mountain goat. Desperately, Adelmar gave chase, but quickly realised it was a lost cause. The boy yelled as he ran, and in the light of the rising sun he could see distant figures moving along the walls of the fort a few hundred yards away. When the sounds of raised voices reached his ears, he abandoned the pursuit and returned to the tower.

  “Is the gate open?” he demanded, closing and bolting the tower door behind him. “We’re about to have company.”

  “Almost, m’lord,” came the young private’s voice from the room leading off the ground floor. “Another few moments and our boats will be clear to come through.”

  “Where’s Trayner?” Adelmar asked, looking around and finding no sign of the grizzled soldier.

  “He left to find a way to send a signal, he said.”

  Adelmar grunted. “When the gate is raised, wait here for my instructions,” he told the young man. “Secure the tower entrance as best you can, and if they find a way to break through, go down those steps to the water and rejoin our men. We’ll have to hope we can beat them back. We’ve come too far to lose this chance.”

  With that, he went to the stairs leading up inside the tower, his gaze resting momentarily upon the body that still lay at their foot. He found Trayner standing upon the balcony they had used to gain entrance. The older man had found a bow from somewhere, and as Adelmar arrived he fired a flaming arrow out across the sea. He watched as it arced out and then down towards the waves. He hoped that the Legion soldiers waiting in their boats had seen it and even now were making their way up towards them.

  The sound of raised, urgent voices, filled the air. Trayner stared past him and leered obscenely. “Looks like you’ve made a few friends,” he observed.

  Adelmar turned and looked back towards the direction of the fort, which was just visible around the round tower walls. Indeed, a number of figures were running towards them, the dawn light glinting off metal armour and weaponry. We just need more time, Adelmar thought. Perhaps if-


  A heavy blow struck him across the shoulders. The force of it caught him completely unawares, and he tipped helplessly over the edge of the balcony. His fingers scrabbled desperately for purchase as he fell, and found it. Before he knew what had happened, he dangled uselessly in the air above the peninsula. “Help me,” he cried, but when he saw the triumphant glint in Trayner’s eyes he realised what had happened was no accident.

  “Bit of bother you’re in there, commander,” the older man said, grinning nastily. He stepped forward, the soles of his boot crunching onto Adelmar’s fingers. He gritted his teeth against the pain, but held on.

  “Why do you do this?” Adelmar strained, but after the exertions of the night, his arms lacked the strength to pull himself up to safety.

  “I’m just following orders, like a good little soldier,” Trayner replied airily. “I thought you of all people would appreciate that, commander.”

  “Orders? Whose?” The pain in his fingers was fast becoming unbearable.

  “Who’dya think? The next emperor, is who.”

  Adelmar’s mind raced, at first unable to grasp his meaning. Then realisation dawned. “Jarrod put you up to this?” As he said the words, he saw the truth of it at last. How his brother’s man had worked to win his confidence since the night at the inn, getting close to him. I’ve been a fool, he thought, a naive, trusting fool. All this time, and it was Jarrod that found my weakness. In different circumstances, he might even have been proud of his brother’s cunning.