Dawn of Wonder (The Wakening Book 1)

by Jonathan Renshaw

  This alley was darker, but it was quiet. He could hear the shouts behind him. Apparently the boys had given up the chase. The voices were receding, but were also getting louder and more excited. Like the yapping of dogs on a trail.

  Suddenly Aedan remembered his young travelling companion. On cat feet, he stalked back to the last corner and peered around. It was as he had feared. The young boy had watched for too long. They had him now. Blows and kicks were raining down on him until he was too stunned to defend himself.

  “Answer me!” It was the same voice that had spoken to Aedan. He couldn’t make out the speaker, but between the gang’s legs he could see his friend.

  “I –” the boy tried before a boot dug into his back.

  “Did I say you could talk?”

  Laughter. The speaker’s voice reminded Aedan of Emroy.

  “This is my ground. You’ll be respecting me. You’ll be looking up when I talk to you.”

  The boy tried to look up but someone swung a baton against his head with a sharp tonk that brought a cry of pain.

  “Did I say you could move?”

  More laughter, mean laughter. When it was quiet the first boy spoke again.

  “I am the Anvil. You remember that, you little cockroach. Next time I find you or that Ooze-head friend of yours here, I crush you. For now, well I’ll just be cleaning you up a bit.”

  There was a sound of shuffling and coarse laughter. Aedan guessed what was happening before he saw the filthy splashing stream. The laughter continued.

  “Much better,” the Anvil shouted when he was done. “Now send him off.”

  The boy was hauled to his bare feet and relieved of his jacket and shoes. They kicked him away and pursued him with a hail of stones, rubble, and an assortment of rotten vegetables. The taunts and threats that pursued him were no less vile.

  Aedan felt sick. He had stood there and done nothing, just watched. He knew there was little he could have done, but that didn’t make him feel better. He saw the boys pulling open a bag and tossing out the contents – a shirt, a wad of paper, a book, a sling. Wondering why it all looked so familiar, Aedan realised that it was his bag. His shoes were there too. Obviously he’d lost them in the first wild dash. There was no going back for anything now. With a start, he slapped his hand against his chest.

  It was still there.

  The little leather case was hanging around his neck and he pressed it to him. If any of the boys had reached for it he would have fought to the death.

  He hurried away from the scene, uncertain where he was going, only that he needed to be well away. The numbness of flight was receding and the injuries began to seep into his thoughts. He realised the skin was gone from a heel, several toes, his knees and elbows; and his head ached like it had been struck by an anvil, as in fact it had.

  At first he was confused by the suddenness of it all, but as he hobbled on through the alleys, the treatment he had felt and witnessed began to soak itself past the skin, and such a torrent of anguish swept through him that he found his eyes moist, his teeth clenching. The gang had only managed to get in a few shoves and cuffs, but after all that Aedan had recently been through, the force of each blow was multiplied a hundredfold.

  Anger started to burn in him. He wanted to go back and find the Anvil – or Dilbert or Zuffy or whatever his real name was – and beat him to a pulp, restore his own identity, his sense of being someone who deserved respect.

  But he couldn’t, so instead he grabbed a plank from a broken crate and assaulted the nearest wall, feasting on images of a gory revenge. He battered away until the wood was in fragments and his fingers raw with splinters.

  But when the fury subsided, the heat gave way to something cold – aloneness. He began to realise just how small he was in a city that was as cruel as it was strange. The people that walked past looked at him without the recognition he had been accustomed to in the Mistyvales, and in its place was a constant wariness, almost suspicion. As an unaccompanied, penniless, barefoot and dirty boy, what hope did he really have of walking off the street into military training? And if this failed, where would he go? He scraped the shreds of his confidence together and pushed on.

  Aedan was exhausted when he stumbled out of the maze of alleys into a surprisingly spacious courtyard. The military offices and barracks were clearly marked on one side. On the other side was a colossal high-walled enclosure. The sign over the main entrance arch proclaimed it to be The Castath Royal Academy of Security and Foreign Associations. The wordy name baffled him for a moment until he realised that this must be the great academy that was famous across the whole of Thirna. Nearby, an office set in the wall was marked Castath Marshals, Public Office. He hadn’t realised that it was at the academy where the grey marshals were trained. Suddenly he wanted to enter marshal training in a way he had seldom wanted anything before.

  He found a small pool of rainwater where he washed the blood and filth off as best he could, neatened himself up, and approached the entrance to the marshals’ head office.

  As he drew near, his hands began to fidget. The guard at the door raised his eyes. The look he wore was not inviting. Aedan’s step faltered and he stubbed his already-skinned toe. When the shudders had passed, he looked up again. The guard was watching him and shook his head; his face was as hard as the offending brick. What remained of Aedan’s bruised courage collapsed and he turned aside and found himself hobbling away towards a nearby library.

  There was nobody guarding the door here, but just to avoid drawing attention, he walked beside a middle-aged couple as they climbed the stairs. Once within the building, he kept them between himself and the librarian’s desk until he could slip down one of the aisles.

  The library at the Mistyvales had consisted of a few dozen books and scrolls on topics ranging from soil management to trade law to tales of sea-monsters, intermittently lost and found on Nulty’s shelves. Nulty had his own personal collection, but Aedan had never seen it. Dresbourn’s shelves held some stuffy volumes of lineage, and Nessa had kept two shelves of histories.

  What surrounded him now was nothing short of staggering. Had he not seen it, he would never have believed that this many books and scrolls existed. The racks were so high that movable ladders stood against them at intervals, allowing access to the upper shelves. He walked down the aisle, his bare feet hardly whispering on the thick carpet. Cool, leathery air seemed to swallow all sound. It reminded him of walking through the forest paths of Nymliss – a place for remembering, forgetting, sorting things out. There was a similar kind of space to think here.

  He took a few turns, moving towards the back of the building, and found a place well away from anyone else. Then he let his eyes start drifting over the spines. Some had the titles written on them, others only an arrangement of numbers which he assumed to be the library’s code. A title caught his eye and he drew out a squat volume – The Five Generals of the Elgan Epoch. Sitting down on the carpet, he opened the book and found the chapter he wanted. The scribe’s hand was elegant but still clear. Aedan was less familiar with the southern variations on some of the letters but his mother had taught him the differences. Soon he was lost in the terrible encounters on the Thirnish borders. Time passed in a quiet oblivion. He neither saw nor heard the big shape approach.

  “This is no place for boys.” The voice had a depth and command the likes of which Aedan had never heard before.

  He gasped and leapt to his feet, leaving the book on the floor. The man was enormous, filling the space between shelves, and so tall that he would have no need of the ladder. Iron grey hair and weather-worn skin suggested age; powerful limbs and lithe movement decried it. He looked strong enough to walk through walls of stone with only minor inconvenience. His face was hard, not mean, but stern as flint and with just as much promise of fiery sparks. The suit he wore was so perfectly cleaned and pressed that Aedan was certain he had to be in the highest ranks of nobility if not royalty. This was not someone he wanted to anger. He turn
ed and scurried off before being sent on his way with more than words. But before he reached the end of the aisle, the big voice rang out with paralysing authority, “Stop!”

  His feet stuck fast, as if gripped in the deep carpet. He swallowed and turned around, fearing that he had damaged something. The man was holding the book.

  Aedan prepared to run.

  “You were reading this?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The man regarded him. “This is not likely reading material for someone your age. Did you understand it?”

  “No, not really,” Aedan admitted.

  “I thought not,” the man said, returning the book to the shelf and lining the spine against its neighbours with absolute precision. “As I said, this is no place for boys. Don’t let me find you meddling here again.”

  Something about the injustice of the man’s conclusion bit Aedan. He had endured enough injustice for one day and drew himself up.

  “I don’t understand how catapults could sink Lekran ships anchored near Verma. I knew an old sailor and he used to tell us about how shallow the water is there because of the reefs. The ships would have been half a mile out. Even our big thumper catapults don’t have a range like that. I think the ships were sunk in some other way – like maybe they got blown onto the reef – and someone is trying to make it look like we pounded them.

  “I also can’t see how seven hundred soldiers could march twenty miles through a dense forest during the night to defend a town by morning. Even during the day, with a bright sun, it’s difficult to go fast and to keep going straight through forest. I think the soldiers set off a day or two before the beacons were lit. Must have been some commander’s lucky guess. Now this historian wants to make it look more solid-like, as if our defences don’t need luck.

  “I’m confused because this is supposed to be a book about facts and it’s loaded with fairy tales written to make us look invincible.”

  The big man’s face did not seem like it was accustomed to showing surprise, but it was getting some practice now. “How old are you?” he asked, walking up with giant strides.

  “Almost thirteen.”

  “Almost thirteen,” he mused. “There are generals who have missed for years what you have uncovered in one reading. How did you learn of such things? Who taught you?”

  The unexpected interest the man was showing caused his face to seem less severe. It revealed a deep sincerity that made Aedan want to talk, to share some of the weight he carried.

  “I used to speak with the old soldiers a lot, and I read a lot. My mother taught me and my friend …” – Aedan couldn’t bring himself to say her name, not today – “taught us to read. We read many stories and histories. I agreed to discuss the stories with her if she discussed the battles with me. So we knew all the great battles in detail, all the great generals.”

  “I would like to meet this friend of yours –” The man stopped short at the look on Aedan’s face.

  Aedan coughed to clear his throat and swallowed a few times. “I tried to save her, but I couldn’t.” The man waited, so Aedan continued. “They were Lekran slavers. They took her as a sacrificial substitute because she had noble blood.” He pressed his eyes shut. “When I’m grown, I am going to tear that trade to pieces and sink what doesn’t burn. Every one of those murdering priests is going to meet his filthy god. She was the kindest, gentlest person I’ve ever known. As soon as I am strong enough I’m going to bring them justice and make sure they can’t take anyone else the way they took her.”

  The man dropped slowly to his knee to look Aedan in the eyes. “Revenge is a selfish pursuit full of empty promise – I would know,” he said. “But you speak of justice, of defending the innocent by felling their oppressor. I see that anger is still fierce in you, but I believe you’ll learn to temper it with wisdom.” He stood to his full height. “How will you reach this strength you need? Who will train you?”

  “I wanted to become a marshal …” He stopped speaking. The man was eying him critically.

  “How sturdy are you? The selection process is extreme and the training is even more so. You don’t look to be in the best of health.”

  “I’ll recover. I just need a little time.”

  “You won’t have time unless you are prepared to wait a year.”

  There were two things that shot through Aedan’s mind. One was a bellow from his heart saying that it would not stand idly by for an entire year. The other had an even keener edge – a vision of yellow curls and raised eyebrows demanding that he get back to where he belonged this instant. “No,” Aedan said quickly. “I’m ready now.” He wished it were true.

  The man nodded. “Very well. Let’s get you enrolled.”

  “I tried already. The guard warned me off. He won’t let me in.”

  “Only one guard, you say?”

  “Yes. But he was big.”

  “There are meant to be three. Come along. If you are going to be part of the military it’s time you learned something about discipline.”

  Aedan had to run to keep up with the long strides. Librarians stared as the unlikely pair passed the front desk and left the building. They marched down the courtyard towards the academy entrance with its solitary guard, passed it, and turned into a little recess. Two more guards were crouched in the shade over a board, gambling chips piled on each side.

  Without breaking stride, the big man kicked the board over, causing the soldiers to leap to their feet with angry yells and blazing eyes. But their eyes were suddenly filled with recognition and fright as they stared up at the towering intruder. He said nothing. In two swift, effortless motions, he flat-handed both surprised faces with enough force to send the helmets flying. His hands were as big and heavy as coal shovels and must have been just as hard because the soldiers skidded across the bricks and slumped against the wall.

  Aedan glanced around. He could not afford to be seen in the company of a man assaulting the city guard. But he was too frightened now of his guide to say anything. This strange man adjusted his suit and led Aedan back to the entrance where the solitary guard stiffened, saluted with a trembling hand, and backed against the wall.

  “You should have reported them,” the man said, his eyes sparking like disturbed coals.

  “Yes, yes, sir. Sorry, sir. It was just that –”

  “I am going in to sign a register. By the time I leave the building, you will be back here with two new guards and two more will be chaining the post-deserters.”

  The soldier saluted and bolted towards the barracks on the far side of the courtyard, yelling at the sentries long before he reached them.

  Aedan and his companion turned away and entered an airy chamber richly ornamented with brass hangings and large paintings. A clerk sat behind a wide marble desk, talking to a man and a boy who looked to be about Aedan’s age. He was saying something about fees and enrolment times. The big man walked past the line of people, snatched a register off the desk, asked Aedan his and his father’s name, and wrote them in. The clerk noticed, but made no attempt to interfere.

  Aedan’s curiosity was gnawing at him. What kind of person had such authority? Royal blood might have explained it, but nobody with royal blood would act with such directness. Perhaps he was rich – rich men tended to have social power. Dresbourn had been similarly respected. But nothing like this man.

  “Now we need to make a visit to the infirmary,” the apparently wealthy patron said as he led the way out again, past three rigid guards, “and you are going to tell me how you arrived here.”

  While Aedan was being re-bandaged by a middle-aged nurse, he told the man about all that had befallen him, leaving out details that might cast too dark a shadow on his father.

  “So your mother’s friends have become your slave-lords, and to boot, you are friendless, homeless and penniless. Well, I think I can solve a part of that. Follow me.” He strode, Aedan jogging at his side, to a row of closely built apartments, and ducked under the doorway on the ground-l
evel. It was hardly the lodging of a wealthy man, and Aedan was left wondering again. Furnishings were simple, but the uniformity, the symmetry and the intimidating spotlessness of the place pointed to an owner who tolerated no deviation from perfect order.

  A military man? That would explain a lot. For some reason the idea of a soldier and a library did not blend. Only the highest ranking officers would be found among books, and those men did not have time for dirty little runaways. Seating himself at the heavy oak table, chair protesting furiously, the man motioned for Aedan to do likewise.

  “Your trials will begin on the first day of winter, when you will find a bunk with the apprentices. Until then you may remain here, pending your mother’s permission. Fees are dealt with. I’ll have clothes delivered by evening. All I ask is that you keep the place tidy and help with the cooking if you have any skill, for I certainly lack it. Most of my meals turn out like that greasy sludge we boil and throw from the battlements. It’s even been suggested that my stew might be a more effective deterrent for attackers …”

  Aedan was crying now. The man’s kindness had knocked down his walls. The accumulated strain and injuries poured from him in deep sobs.

  “You don’t have to eat it.”

  The sobs gave way to laughter and the jumbled flood of emotions carried on for some time. “I don’t know how to thank you,” Aedan said at last. “I don’t even know your name.”

  “Cook something I can swallow without effort and I’ll be thanked enough. My name is Osric.”

  Aedan stared, mouth agape. “Osric? General Osric? The General Osric?

  “To you I am just Osric. Understand?”

  Aedan nodded, trying not to stare, failing.

  “Supper will level your opinion of me.”

  It was true. There was plenty of stew to be had and Aedan went to bed hungry. Osric never cooked again. And Aedan ended up apprenticing to his childhood hero, the most famed of all Thirnish generals, as a chef after all.