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

by Alan Ratcliffe

  Brother Merryl breathed a sigh of relief. “Well done, my son, that should buy us a few moments. Follow the wall to the left, there are some handholds carved into the cliff face. Eventually you will come to a path that-”

  Cole watched, dumbstruck, as metal burst through the old man’s chest, dripping with gore. Merryl gasped and crumpled to the ground.

  “Merryl!” Cole lurched forward to grab him as the blade withdrew. The old man was limp in his arms. Blood gushed from the wound in his chest, pumping his life away with every beat of his heart.

  Two hooded faces stared at him from the other side of the metal grille, their expressions strangely blank. One of the men still held out the blade he had thrust into Merryl’s back.

  “Open the gate, boy,” called the other, his voice flat.

  “The master wishes to speak to you,” said his companion, in the same strange inflectionless tone. They sounded almost bored.

  Cole backed away, half-supporting, half-carrying Brother Merryl. The old man’s breaths came in wet, whistling gasps. Cole fought to keep his rising panic under control. Not knowing what else to do, he dragged them both to the long stone bridge that led to the rock spire, upon which sat the elder’s solar.

  Behind him, Cole could hear the clang of metal as the cowled men made ineffectual attempts to raise the portcullis by hand. He caught a few words that sounded much like “get the brute”. He quickened his pace.

  Half a hundred yards along the bridge, Cole paused and gazed out across the water, towards the dock far below. Just then, the moon shone through a gap in the clouds, and he groaned at the tiny but distinct silhouettes of men on patrol beside the moored ships.

  He hurried along the remainder of the bridge, by now supporting the entire weight of the old man, shocked at how light he was. Eventually, they reached the solar. Cole ducked beneath the hanging tendrils of orchids, and gently eased Brother Merryl onto the stone floor beyond.

  In spite of the darkness, he could see that the old man’s chest barely moved. The blade that had torn its way through his chest had missed the heart, but he had lost so much blood. He surely did not have long. “I’m so sorry,” Cole whispered, blinking away tears.

  Merryl’s eyes fluttered open. He smiled weakly. “Only a fool cries at the passing of an old man. I am done, Cole. You must...” He grimaced at a sudden stab of pain. “You must leave.”

  Cole shook his head. “The dock is guarded. I didn’t know what else to do, so I came here, to the solar.” He hesitated. “There is not much time. But, if you wish, I believe I can take you there again. One last time.”

  The old man nodded, and the gratitude in his eyes tore at Cole’s heart. He reached for the chain around Merryl’s neck, and withdrew the crystal pendant. He wasn’t sure he could make the journey again so soon. But he had to try.

  Cole wrapped his fist around the small crystal, and focused. He fought back the dizziness and flew through the dark, willing himself on. Faster.

  His feet touched down on sand, and he ran. He found the Brother Merryl of this strange other plane, the floating orb that contained all the old man’s memories and dreams, and thrust a hand beneath the liquid surface.

  As it yielded, Cole felt the old man’s fear, his pain. He tried to soothe as best he could while he searched. Finally, he found what he was looking for, took hold and twisted...

  He stood in dappled sunshine, outside a familiar cottage. In life – real life – he had never been to this place, yet he knew it well just the same. In front of him was a wooden gate. It had once been painted blue, but exactly which shade was now a mystery, with the gate bleached almost white by the sun. He pushed it open, and stepped through.

  It was high summer and the garden was filled with blooms of every colour, the air thick with their scent. Butterflies danced from flower to flower. Cole couldn’t help but admire the beauty of the place, as he walked around the side of the cottage.

  If the garden at the front was blooming, the back was a verdant maze of plants, shrubs and trees of all sizes. Two rose bushes had been trained into an archway above the path. In all the times he had visited the garden, he had never ventured beyond that point. Today, he stepped through the rose-arch without a second thought. He followed the path, which wended its way past beds overflowing with greenery.

  Around one corner there was a plain wooden bench. An old man in a brown robe was seated on it, his head tilted back, drinking in the sunshine.

  As he sat beside him, Merryl spoke. “Thank you, Cole.”

  Cole stared at his feet. “I’m sorry,” he murmured.

  “Don’t be,” the old man replied gently. “You have given me a fine gift. I always believed I would die beside the sea. You have brought me home.”

  For a time they just sat, without speaking. Cole watched a fat bumblebee buzz past them, its flight ungainly.

  “How long?” Brother Merryl’s tone was matter-of-fact, but Cole could hear the fear behind his words.

  “I’m not sure exactly,” he replied. “Time moves different here, I’ve noticed, more slowly. I’ve spent hours here before, and returned to find that only minutes have passed out there.”

  The old man nodded, satisfied. “Cole, when you return, you must flee. Those men, the ones who chased us, they arrived in the Archon’s party.”

  “I saw them, the ones who...” Cole tailed off, unable to finish the sentence. “They seemed strange, as if in a trance,” he finished.

  The old man paused, mulling over his words. “I believe now there is a sickness within our Order,” he said. “I have felt uneasy for some time, but ignored my concerns. Fool that I am! If only we knew how far it has spread.”

  “One of the other bastions, perhaps?”

  The old man shook his head. “Most have already been called to Ehrenburg now that the Spire is nearing completion. But perhaps...” he tailed off.

  “What is it, Brother?”

  “In the mountains far to the east, on the tallest peak of the Dragon’s Back, there is a sanctuary, Frosthold. Less than a dozen Brothers remain, scholars all. I have heard very little of them for many years, but that is the point; they are isolated. There is a chance, perhaps, that whatever sickness infects us has yet to take hold there.” He paused, thinking. “They may even have noted something amiss themselves. The Brothers of Frosthold are some of the wisest of our Order.”

  Cole stood. “Then that is where I shall go.”

  “You must be careful, child.” Merryl sounded anxious. “The road east is fraught with dangers. It would be wise to seek company, a guide who can steer you safely along your path.”

  “I will try.” Cole sighed. “It is time for me to leave.”

  “Yes.” The old man smiled placidly. “I believe I shall just sit awhile, and enjoy the sunshine. All things considered, it was not such a bad life.”

  Tears stung Cole’s eyes. Before he could turn away, Merryl spoke again. “Before you go, Cole, one final word. Your powers...when you reach the sanctuary, you may find some of the answers you seek.”

  Cole nodded. “Goodbye, old friend,” he whispered. He closed his eyes, and pushed with his mind.

  * * *

  When he returned to himself, he was greeted by the sound of screeching metal away beyond the end of the bridge. It seemed that he was out of time.

  On the floor before him, the body of Brother Merryl lay still. The old man’s eyes were shut fast, and he looked at peace. There was nothing more Cole could do. He looked down and saw that his fist was still clenched around the old man’s small crystal pendant. Gently, he lifted the silver chain over Brother Merryl’s head, and slipped it over his own.

  At another urgent screech of metal on stone, Cole leapt to his feet. With a loud crash, the portcullis smashed into the roof of the gateway, and armed men poured through the opening. Behind them loomed the unmistakable hulk of the Archon’s giant, stamping along in their wake. No mystery about who lifted the gate, thought Cole bitterly.

  As the figure
s dashed onto the bridge and neared the solar, Cole edged away. His back bumped into the stone rail that separated him from the long drop into the roiling waves below. The men burst through the dangling foliage, and with his back pressed against the rail, Cole circled around until he was behind the elder’s stone desk.

  “You must come,” said one of the cowled men. Cole could not tell whether he was one of the two that had cut down Brother Merryl, but he spoke in the same odd, lifeless tone.

  Cole twisted his head, towards the distant waves. A hundred-foot drop. At least.

  Armed men approached him from either side of the desk, the tips of their blades pointed toward him. Before they could reach him, Cole clambered onto the top of the rail. His legs trembled.

  Between the long drop to the sea and the men spread out before him, there was no escape. Just then, Dantes pushed his way through the throng, his gaze fixed on Cole. There, at least, was emotion. The giant’s eyes burned through the mask like hot coals.

  Cole’s mind raced as he tried to find a way out, but there was none. In a way, the lack of options was liberating. The only choices left were to be caught by the Archon’s men, or jump.

  He jumped.

  Rough hands grabbed after him, but it was too late. He was already falling. He filled his lungs with air and tried not to think about whether he had made the right decision.

  As he fell, a large head and broad shoulders appeared at the rail, silhouetted against the moonlit sky. Cole closed his eyes and braced himself for the imminent impact, feeling a small exultation of victory.

  A moment later, when the shadows of other men joined the first at the rail and peered down at the sea, the boy was nowhere to be seen. There were only the waves, dashing themselves into white foam on the rocks below.

  CHAPTER 4

  The harbour town of Westcove was in many ways a reflection of its inhabitants; rough, vibrant and irrevocably bound to the ocean.

  Ramshackle buildings lined both sides of the only street in Westcove worthy of the name, which climbed steeply up from the sandy bay. Many of the shops and houses of the town were built from the driftwood that regularly washed up on the shore, a gift of the sudden squalls and rocky coastline to the south that had been the end of many an unwary vessel and its crew.

  A number of these buildings seemed to lean at dangerous angles, as if perpetually on the verge of tumbling back into the sea from which they had emerged. It would not be for the first time in Westcovian history.

  A cursory inspection would uncover the basis of the town’s livelihood. The shops of fishmongers and ship-chandlers were dotted along the main street, the air of which was thick with the smells of freshly caught seafood, thick tar and oils of various types and purpose. Set behind these were large, rickety workshops of shipwrights and sail-makers. Sat right in the centre of the main street was a building larger, and somehow even more ramshackle, than the rest. Outside this establishment hung a painted sign, bearing the likeness of a coy-looking woman with a silver-scaled tail. Crudely painted letters along the wooden frontage proclaimed it to be the Mermaid’s Bounty Tavern.

  Along the waterfront itself squatted several long and low warehouses, each of which was adorned with the coat of arms of one of the Westcovian Fisher Houses, as faded as the fortunes of those once-great seafaring families. Like the town from which they had sprung, the fate of these houses was inextricably linked to the ocean; unlike the others of the Empire, their holdings were predominantly at sea, with great swathes of the north-western ocean carved up between them. In contrast, they owned only relatively small holdings of the surrounding lands. Harder times had pinched the nobles of the west every bit as much as its people, and it was not unusual for the once-bustling warehouses of Westcove to stand silent and darkened for days at a time.

  At its furthest reach, the town extended into the ocean itself; two short wooden piers reached out over the waves, supported on thick pilings driven deep into the seabed. Along each pier were moored a dozen or more fishing boats, laden with nets and cages.

  Whatever was beyond the dock was hidden behind a blanket of mist that lay across the surface of the water, giving the bay a ghostly feel in the half-light of the early dawn. At this hour, the dock and street were both deserted, adding to the eerie atmosphere. Even the tavern, usually rowdy throughout the day and night, was at rest.

  A large shape glided through the mist, soon revealing itself to be a wooden vessel. It approached the dock silently, the mist serving to deaden the sound as it cut through the water.

  When it reached the nearest pier, several men jumped from its deck and secured the vessel to the moorings. That done, they then busied themselves unloading crates and cages that bristled with the sharp spines and pincers of assorted shellfish.

  The vessel’s captain strode along the deck, issuing orders to the bustling crew, who rushed to see them carried out. He stood watching for a few moments with a keen eye, running a hand absently through the wiry hair of his beard. Though still in his middle years, he had already noticed it begin to grey; a life spent at sea often made the men of Westcove age before their time. The black felt tricorn that he was rarely seen out of doors without also helped conceal a worrying thinning of the coarse brown hair on his scalp. Like the russet longcoat he wore, it was always impeccably maintained. Evidently satisfied with what he saw from his crew, the captain then strolled towards a figure sitting huddled in the prow beneath a rough woollen blanket.

  “Well, lad, we’ve made land at Westcove as promised, and once we’ve unloaded, my boys will be heading to their beds. Have you somewhere to go?”

  The young man shook his head miserably. He had barely spoken a word to the captain or crew since they had dragged him, half-drowned and barely conscious, from the sea some five leagues from shore. After being revived, he had asked their destination, before slumping down in the prow. Not a word had passed his lips since, and he’d spent the short voyage back to the town staring moodily into the mist.

  The captain considered turfing the boy onto the dock and washing his hands of him. His muscles ached from a long night at sea, and tiredness seemed to seep into his very bones. The warm bed that was waiting for him not three hundred yards away up the hill was calling to him. His instincts also warned him that pulling the boy, whose attire marked him as hailing from the Crag, from the sea was unlikely to bring good fortune to any of them.

  In the end, his natural curiosity got the better of him. “If you’re hungry, the good lady wife always has a pot of stew waiting at home after a long night,” he offered. “Or if you want a bed to rest up in awhile, could be you’ll find one of those as well. It’s not soft, but it’s clean and free. I don’t believe you’ll find many better offers in the whole of the ‘Cove.”

  The boy looked up. There was a pause as he weighed up the captain’s offer, then he nodded wearily. “Thank you,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

  Wondering vaguely what had happened to his young charge to cause such sorrow, the captain nodded brusquely, then turned and stamped across the gangway onto the shore. The boy watched him for a moment, then clambered to his feet to follow after him.

  The captain strode past the dock buildings and up the main street, the boy trailing in his wake. Neither spoke. The windows of the buildings they passed were all dark, and it almost felt as though they were the only people awake in the entire town. There was a chill in the predawn air, and the boy shivered in his still-sodden clothes.

  The house the captain had spoken of turned out to be one of a cluster of small, wooden cottages behind the main street. A maze of dingy, damp alleys led the way to his door. As the captain wended his way easily through the warren, the boy’s head darted warily from side to side.

  At length, the captain pushed open a door indistinguishable from any of the others that they had passed, and gestured for the young man to enter.

  They entered a room that, while small, was scrupulously clean. A table and pair of chairs sat close to a stove t
hat was burning merrily. Upon its top sat a bubbling pot. Whatever lay within it filled the room with a mouth-watering aroma.

  The captain collapsed into the nearest chair with a contented sigh. Still somewhat cautious, the young man tentatively sat down across from him. Just then, a woman bustled into the kitchen from another room. She opened her mouth to speak, and stopped as she caught sight of the unfamiliar boy seated at her table.

  “Olyvar, you didn’t tell me to expect company,” she chided.

  “Unforeseen circumstances, love.” The captain looked sheepish. “We picked up some unexpected cargo on the return voyage.”

  “Unexpected indeed.” The captain’s wife folded her arms. “Ye’ll both be wanting something to eat, no doubt. It’s a good thing I made plenty.”

  The woman’s face was stern and careworn, her golden hair tied up in a severe bun that was practical rather than an attempt to adopt a particular style. A short-sleeved blouse revealed forearms that were red to the elbow, signs of a life of hard work and toil. She brought two bowls to the table, then gasped as she caught a closer look at their guest. “Olyvar,” she cried. “Did you not even offer the lad some dry clothes? Look at the state of him, soaked to the skin!”

  The captain murmured an embarrassed apology, as his wife helped the young man out of his wet cloak and shoes. Then, as she disappeared into the house in search of fresh garments, he stood and ladled a thick, brown stew from the bubbling pot into each bowl.

  As he set the steaming bowl down in front of the boy, his wife reappeared with a stack of clothes, and laid them down on the table. The young man hesitated, and she smiled. “There’s a bedroom down the hall,” she said. “You can change there and spare your blushes.”

  The boy thanked her as he took the clothes and left the kitchen. A short time later he rejoined them, looking much improved. The captain’s shirt and breeches were large on him, but not ridiculously so. “That’s better,” said the captain’s wife. They waited for him at the table, steaming bowls as yet untouched. “Now, come and break your fast.”