The youth was pulled backwards to safety behind the stone ramparts. The flat top of the keep’s tower was crowded, as pale-robed novices jostled with white-clad initiates to peer hopefully across the sea.
“It will probably take them an hour to reach us,” sighed one.
“More like two, then there’s the climb up to the Crag from the dock. Call it three. If you’re lucky, he’ll be here for supper.”
Several of the nearest novices turned to glare at the speaker. “Know everything, dontcha, Cole?”
Cole shrugged. “Less than some, more than most, Oaf.”
“That’s Ulf, clown,” growled the novice. He was a stocky mound of a boy, with a heavy brow and a tangle of greasy, unkempt hair. Cole’s jibe, drawn as much from the boy’s name as anything, was nevertheless cruelly apt.
“Ah, I always get that wrong, don’t I?” Cole stifled a yawn. “I was speaking from experience, though. Unlike any of you I have made the crossing recently.”
Groans went up from the assembled boys. “Just ‘cos you’re Brother Merryl’s pet dun’t make you better’n us,” spat Ulf.
“Not all of you, no,” Cole replied, grinning wolfishly.
There were a few nervous titters of laughter, and the stout novice reddened. “Why’re you even here, fool? You’ve not shown no int’rest in the Archon’s visit till now.”
“Why indeed. Perhaps I just find the sea air conducive to a healthy appetite.” He nodded towards the lanky youth. “Fancy seeing what culinary delights the cook has conjured up for us this morning, Cas?”
“Anything that shuts you up for a few minutes is fine with me,” retorted the scraggly youth, smiling.
Cole slapped him companionably on the shoulder and turned his back on the novices, ignoring the venomous glare thrown by one in particular. It was all he could do to stop himself laughing as they disappeared down the steps into the keep’s interior.
* * *
The modest dining hall in the novice’s wing was by far the smallest of the two housed within the Crag. For decades, the cavernous Great Hall had hosted regular banquets for scores of cowled friars and students. It wasn’t unusual for such occasions to stretch long into the night as course after course was brought out, each more sumptuous than the last.
As their numbers dwindled, however, the Brothers and their young charges more often took repast in the Small Hall, as it was known. Visiting elders and dignitaries were still welcomed with a grand banquet that matched those past in sentiment if not scale, though as the years passed such occasions became fewer and farther between. It had been many months since anyone other than a servant had even entered the larger hall at all.
As Cole and the scraggly youth pushed open the door of the Small Hall, their faces flushed as the warmth hit them. The tips of Cole’s fingers prickled as if prodded by dozens of tiny pins. After the chill of the sea breeze blowing across the ramparts, the thick, close air of the dining hall felt like a furnace.
A smattering of other initiates, novices and one or two brown-robed Brothers sat dotted around the benches. Several were deep in conversation, their voices too low to make out what was being said. But most sat apart from their fellows, happy to break their fast in solitude.
On the far side of the hall, a fire burned merrily in a plain stone hearth. Above it hung a large iron kettle, its contents steaming. From the doorway, Cole was unable to see what was cooking, but the aroma that reached his nostrils dampened his expectations. Nobody looked up from their bowls as Cole and his companion crossed over to the pot and risked a look inside.
“I see the cook has outdone himself once again,” sighed Cole, his nose wrinkling in distaste. “Some might say that it just isn’t possible to burn porridge this watery a thousand times in a row, yet his standards never slip.”
“There’s bacon, too,” said his lanky companion, as he grabbed several charred rashers and spooned some of the unappetising grey sludge into a bowl. Cole shook his head sadly and reluctantly followed suit.
They found an empty bench in a corner. Cole poked sullenly at his porridge, as his companion wolfed down his own with every sign of enjoyment. “I don’t know how you can stomach this, Cas.”
“Food’s food,” the boy replied with a shrug, his mouth full. “I don’t know why you rile up Ulf and the others so. Do you like it in that pigeon coop so much you’re desperate to go back?”
Cole spooned up some porridge and sniffed at it suspiciously. “Oh, it’s not so bad,” he said finally, pushing his bowl aside. “Unlike this slop, anyway. You get fresh air, time to think...”
“Fresh air, we’ve all got plenty of,” Cas replied, indicating the unglazed windows that faced onto the courtyard. “And some would say you do enough thinking as it is.”
Cole chuckled. “Others would say I need to do more, particularly before opening my mouth. Elder Tobias for one.” He bit off a mouthful of bacon, which shattered into charred, salty slivers in his mouth. The taste was not unpleasant.
“Ulf is right about one thing, though,” Cas said thoughtfully, inspecting his bowl for any remaining globules of porridge. Before Cole could answer, he went on, “You do think you’re better than the rest of us.”
Cole reddened. The point had struck a nerve. “Look, Cas, I know I give Ulf and his cronies a hard time, but-”
The younger novice waved a grubby hand dismissively. “Mayhap you’re not wrong, though,” he said. “Not better, perhaps. Different. We all decided to come to the Crag.” He thought about that for a moment, then sniffed. “Or, someone decided for us, leastwise. But you were born here.”
“Not born, Cas. Do you think Elder Tobias is my mother?”
“You’re ugly enough,” Cas conceded. “Come here as a baby, then. You’ve never known aught else but these cold walls. You’re not even a novice like the rest of us. Not proper, anyways.”
Cole tapped his fingers thoughtfully on the bench. “I’m to make a decision soon, Brother Merryl says,” he said after a pause. “I always knew it had to happen one day, but I thought when the time came I would know what to do. This has always been my home, that’s true enough. But join the Order?” He glanced around the hall, at the robed figures all around them. “Is it wrong to wonder what else lies beyond the Crag?”
“I’ll tell you what there is, Cole. Trouble and strife, that’s what. Lots of one and more of the other. Take it from me.”
“You sound like Merryl.” Cole sighed. “Maybe you’re right.” They talked of other matters then, gossiping about their fellows, but Cole still found his mind wandering back to thoughts of what lay beyond the island fortress.
Their daily chores had long been completed; in anticipation of the Archon’s arrival, the novices had been summoned from their beds before dawn to tirelessly scrub every dusty nook and cobweb-strewn cranny of the keep. Their studies, meanwhile, had been suspended for the occasion. Finding themselves with unexpected free time on their hands, the idle young men of the Crag prowled the grey halls in search of diversion. In no great hurry to be elsewhere, after they had broken their fast, Cole made himself comfortable before the hall’s hearth.
Cas was idly leaning out of a window, when he let out a sudden cry.
“Hoy, Cole... wake up you laze-bones!”
“I wasn’t asleep,” Cole protested, the muzziness of his voice betraying the lie.
“Aye, and I expect you always snore when you’re awake,” Cas retorted. “Anyway, look who just strolled onto the training field with his mates, bold as brass.”
Cole yawned and joined him at the window. A familiar shape was standing in a group of four other novices. “You know,” he said slowly. “I have a sudden urge to get some exercise.”
They left the hall together, strolling across the courtyard to the area the novices used for sparring. A couple of pairs were already clacking staves half-heartedly, attempting to use their free time profitably, more from habit than any great desire for self-improvement.
Cole ambled amiably towa
rds the group of four standing to one side, talking amongst themselves. “Eirik!” he cried, drawing close. “It’s good to see you back on your feet so soon.”
The four boys turned to face him. One was markedly taller than his fellows, with close-cropped blonde hair. Although nearly faded, a bruise still encircled one eye.
Cole grinned and folded his arms. “The swelling has gone down, I see. Sorry about that little misunderstanding we had.”
The boy called Eirik smiled serenely. “It is good to see you too, Cole.”
Cole’s grin faltered. There was something about his rival’s mild tone that unsettled him. “Yes. Well.” He gestured towards the sparring novices. “How about another round, best of three?”
Eirik stared at him, unblinking, his face impassive. “I don’t think that is a good idea, do you, Cole?” he said at last. “I believe Elder Tobias would take a dim view of such an encounter.”
Cole grabbed a quarterstaff from a nearby rack. He span it idly, appreciating he heft of the wood. “Oh, I don’t know,” he replied. “I think the elder would appreciate the need to confront ill feelings rather than let them fester.”
Eirik shook his head, sadly. “There need not be bad blood between us, Cole. We are brothers, in body and spirit. I have no desire to fight you.”
“Brothers?” Cole scoffed. “It didn’t seem very fraternal when you left me on my back in the dust last week.”
“I regret my actions on that day, Cole.” Eirik expression was solemn. “I would beg your forgiveness, if you would accept mine. I... am not the boy I was then.”
Frowning, Cole looked down to the silver chain around the other’s neck. Whatever hung from the end of it was hidden beneath his plain woollen tunic, but the significance of it was not lost on him. “You have taken the vows, then?”
Eirik drew out the pendant, green crystal set in silver. “Three days past. As I said, Cole, I am your Brother, now. Any quarrel you or I might have once had is in the past.”
Cole nodded thoughtfully, then in one swift movement swept the stave around behind Eirik’s legs, knocking them out from under him. He landed on his back with a thump.
As the other boy climbed unsteadily to his feet, Cole took another stave from the rack, and threw it to the ground in front of him. “No quarrel, then, just practice,” he said, grinning.
At first, Eirik merely stood staring at him, his face red. Anger flared in his eyes, then vanished as quickly as it had appeared. “As you wish,” he replied, stooping to pick up the weapon.
Cole was dimly aware of distant shouts as they circled each other warily. He watched the other boy’s movements closely, tensing himself to react as soon as his opponent made a move. After a few moments, when that failed to materialise, Cole’s confident grin began to fade. Growing impatient, he tested a tentative feint to his right. Eirik did not so much as blink.
A second later, Cole lashed out to his left, no mere feint this time, and the staves met with a loud crack that echoed around the courtyard. Battle joined at last, the staves twirled and struck as both combatants ran through the moves that were drilled into every novice, neither able to break through the other’s defence.
As they fought, a tiny doubt flickered at the back of Cole’s mind and began to grow. This felt different to their previous bouts, but it took a minute or more to pinpoint why that was. Then, after a failed downward strike that was easily parried by his opponent, Cole stumbled, just a fraction, caught off-balance. At that moment he was wide open to a counter-attack, but it never came. It was then that he knew for certain. He’s holding back!
Once he had seen it, it became impossible to ignore. His strikes were being effectively blocked each time, yet he had yet to need to make so much as a single parry himself.
“Afraid that I’ve got the best of you this time, Eirik?” he panted, as another feint went ignored.
Eirik merely smiled.
His opponent’s demeanour incensed Cole. He began to put more force into each of his attacks, putting his opponent on the back foot. Finally, Eirik failed to recover quickly enough from a parry and Cole seized upon it, planting the butt of his stave into Eirik’s gut. The young Brother collapsed to the ground with a moan.
A triumphant Cole turned to look for Cas, only to see dozens of his fellows gathered around the training square. It was only then that he noticed the hush that had fallen over the courtyard. His cry of celebration died on his lips at the sight of Elder Tobias striding towards him, red-faced and shaking with anger.
“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded. “You attack one of your brothers, without provocation, on an occasion such as this?” The slap echoed across the courtyard. Cole’s head rocked to one side with the force of it. His cheek throbbed where the elder’s palm had struck.
“Elder.” A voice Cole didn’t recognise called out. “It is unbecoming for those of higher station to meet violence with violence.”
His cheek still stinging and feeling shamed by the public scolding, Cole looked towards the speaker. A figure dressed in a robe of purest white crossed the courtyard towards them. A pair of eyes as green as the sea on a hot summer’s day looked upon him with the merest hint of amusement.
“Is this the boy you spoke of?” the green-eyed man asked, addressing the elder but continuing to hold Cole’s gaze.
“Indeed, it is, Archon. Cole. A talented if infuriating initiate.”
“He fights well?”
“Well enough. He lacks not for enthusiasm, but his instructors say he continues to fight too much with his heart and not enough with his head. It is control that he lacks.”
The Archon nodded thoughtfully. “My servant has been known to wield a stave on occasion.” He smiled at Cole. “What say you to one more bout, initiate?”
Cole sensed that a refusal would not be looked upon kindly. “If my lord pleases,” he replied, at a loss what else to say.
Without a further word, the Archon turned and snapped his fingers towards a group of unfamiliar Brothers that lingered at the edge of the courtyard. His attendants, no doubt, thought Cole. He eyed them with interest, wondering which he was to fight.
But instead, the brown-robed figures parted. From behind them strode another – taller by a clear head than any of his fellows. He wasn’t simply tall, Cole realised as he neared them. Everything about him was on a larger scale than anyone else he had ever laid eyes on. Powerful shoulders and a chest like the tuns of mead kept in the elder’s cellar were covered with a roughspun wool tunic, which ill-concealed the muscles beneath. One huge arm, its bicep as large as Cole’s head, was bare, the other oddly covered by a grey cloak that hung only on one side. The giant’s face was hidden behind a steel mask, fashioned with ghoulish, inhuman features. This was held to his face by a number of tight leather straps that encircled his skull – itself as large as a bull’s.
A pair of fierce eyes stared out from the depths of this unpleasant visage. While holes had also been cut into the metal to allow its wearer to breathe, no such provision had been made for the giant’s mouth.
As the huge figure approached, it almost seemed as if the ground trembled with each heavy footfall. Around the courtyard, the Brothers and novices gawped.
The giant reached them within moments, his long strides carrying him across the ground deceptively quickly. He stopped before the Archon and loomed silently above the three of them.
“Your servant... I, ah, I don’t believe I’ve ever seen the like,” stammered the elder.
The Archon smiled. “Impressive, is he not? I found him many years ago, the last captive in a forgotten dungeon in the Shadowlands. The wretch was half starved and near death. He was a slave, I presume, and tortured. Unfortunately, the exact nature of his confinement remains a mystery, as he is not too communicative. Isn’t that right, Dantes?” The giant growled, and fell silent again.
“Why does he wear that mask?” The elder asked the question all in the courtyard were wondering.
“For modesty’s sa
ke, elder,” the Archon replied. “I regret to say that his former captors were not kind, and quick to apply hot irons and pincers. They took his tongue and also, perhaps to control such a man,” the Archon swept the cloak aside, “his arm.”
There were gasps and a few shocked cries from those assembled. Even the elder looked momentarily taken aback. In place of his right arm, to the giant’s shoulder was attached an array of metal bands and leather straps, held together in such a fashion so as to resemble the limb they replaced. These were interwoven with metal circles and discs, where a normal man’s elbow and wrist would sit. At the end of the bizarre contraption was a metal hand, made of similar constituent parts but on a smaller scale. This close, Cole could see the workmanship was exquisite. Impossibly so, even. It was hard to believe there was a smith in the Empire who could fashion such a contrivance.
“A prosthetic? My my, how ingenious.” The elder peered more closely at the workings of the metal arm. “A terrible thing to lose an arm, of course, but this is very impressive work. Does it function?”
“A little.” The Archon turned back to Cole and raised an eyebrow. “So, is the initiate prepared for a training bout with my servant, one with such an unfortunate disability?”
Cole was still horrified at the thought of facing off against a man of such stature, but the sight of the metal arm had put him more at ease. “He will be able to fight one-handed?”
A smirk tugged at the corner of the Archon’s mouth. “His remaining arm will bear the weight of a staff, I believe. Dantes is a most capable servant.”
Cole lifted another quarterstaff from the rack and tossed it to his opponent. The giant plucked it out of the air with his left hand as though it was no more substantial than a reed blown in the wind.
Nervously, Cole began to circle, just as he had before, trying to block out the jeers of his fellows around the training square. More than a few of them were hoping to see his brains dashed upon the floor, he suspected.
As he moved, the giant merely turned to follow, twirling his stave in one hand. The air hummed as it span.
Dawn of the Dreamsmith (The Raven's Tale Book 1) Page 4
